


Half Life

by housebigbangmod (zulu)



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-30
Updated: 2008-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-12 13:55:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/125580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/housebigbangmod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story was written by <a href="http://oldblue.livejournal.com">oldblue</a>. The world changes forever. House and Wilson must cope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fall to Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by [bell](http://bell.dreamwidth.org).
> 
> [](http://house-bigbang.dreamwidth.org/8858.html)  
> by [](http://brynnamorgan.livejournal.com/profile)[**brynnamorgan**](http://brynnamorgan.livejournal.com/)
> 
> [](http://house-bigbang.dreamwidth.org/8547.html)  
>  by [](http://thedeadparrot.livejournal.com/profile)[**thedeadparrot**](http://thedeadparrot.livejournal.com/)

At the beginning of everything, on that first morning, Wilson wakes to the sound of a dog howling.

It's just after five AM and he's disoriented by the smell of unfamiliar sheets before he remembers for the hundredth time, _hotel_. He's absolutely sure the dog must be part of his dream until it starts up again--a mournful noise that rises and falls; it sounds almost human.

Wilson rubs his bleary eyes and wonders what sort of idiot brings a howling dog to a hotel.

After a quick shower, Wilson makes his way down to the lobby and stops to fill his travel mug with stale coffee from the breakfast bar. He considers complaining about the dog, but both clerks are in the back office staring intently at the TV, so he doesn't bother.

The morning outside is clear and bitterly cold, the first real taste of winter coming early in the fall. Ice crystals glitter on every surface, coating the parking lot in a thin sheet of white.

Wilson fumbles with cold-numbed fingers for a few seconds before he manages to get the car key in the lock. The door resists and then opens with a startling crackle of breaking ice. The ensuing silence is so profound that he pauses for a moment, looking curiously around the parking lot, before getting into the Volvo.

Wilson's drive to work is also strangely quiet, save for the unusually high numbers of emergency vehicles that pass him. Coffee shops and newsstands that should be bustling with early morning professionals and students stand empty and shuttered. It's so surreal that Wilson wonders if he's gone through some sort of time warp, maybe slept for three days and woken up on a Saturday assuming it was Wednesday.

Maybe he's still dreaming, he thinks. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a dark shape-- _a dog?_ \--slip between two buildings and disappear into an alley. He turns quickly to get a better look, but only succeeds in fogging up the side window with his breath, obscuring his view.

Wilson finally makes it in to work, although he has to pull over at least four more times to let ambulances pass, all of which seem to be converging on Princeton Plainsboro.

Through the glass doors, he can see that the main lobby is bustling with activity. There's definitely something going on today. Wilson wishes he'd thought to turn on the radio in the car, but it just hadn't occurred to him.

He stops just inside the doors and is almost immediately stepped on by a frayed-looking nurse. "Sorry," Wilson mutters. There must've been some kind of major disaster? That's the only thing he can think of.

Wilson doesn't immediately recognize any faces, and he'd feel guilty keeping anyone from responding to an emergency, so he weaves his way delicately through the busy crowd to the little news and gift stand in the corner of the lobby. The young guy, Tim, who's working the counter, is usually up-to-date on the latest PPTH news.

Wilson manages to make it to the counter without spilling his coffee. He looks around then raises his eyebrows questioningly at Tim.

"Crazy in here today, huh, Doc?"

"Yeah," Wilson agrees. They survey the chaos in silence for a few moments. "Um, do you know what's going on?"

Tim smirks at him. "Didn't watch the news this morning, huh?"

"I, uh, woke up late and--No, I didn't."

"Apparently," Tim pauses dramatically, "And I know this sounds crazy, Doc, but apparently...people started turning into wolves last night."

Wilson nearly chokes on the sip of cold coffee he was attempting to swallow. "Uh, what--I thought you said--Sorry--" He coughs a few more times, trying to clear his throat. "Um, seriously?"

"Totally. Scout's honor, Doc." Tim holds up two fingers to show he's serious. Wilson has no idea what the scout sign, or whatever it's called, looks like.

Now he's absolutely sure he's still dreaming. He takes another sip of what must be imaginary coffee, as if that might wake him up.

"I know, man--it's crazy." Tim shakes his head. "First, people thought it was some kind of mass hallucination, you know? Like some kind of gas released by terrorists that made people see things. Or just mass hysteria, or something. Who knows? But then people started coming in to the ER with bite wounds. Like from actual wolves, ya know?"

Wilson nods. He's still waiting for his alarm clock to wake him up.

"Then the cops were all, like, it's a pack of wild dogs or something. But people coming here swear they saw it happen--they saw people actually turn into wolves. I mean, _fuck_."

They both turn towards some sudden shouting. A team of doctors and nurses are pushing a gurney through the lobby towards the elevators. One nurse presses a bloody towel to the patient's neck.

Wilson squeezes against the counter to give the group room to pass. He watches until both team and patient disappear into the elevator.

"The ER's full," Tim supplies. "Do you know Sarah?"

Wilson has no idea who Sarah is, but he nods anyway.

"She was up here earlier and she said they've had a lot of heart attacks and strokes to deal with. Along with all the bite wounds. The shock and all, I guess."

Everything seems real. Wilson thinks he'll probably have to accept that he's not dreaming. "So did you, uh, see anything?" he asks.

"Me? No, Doc. Sorry." Tim shakes his head like he's disappointed. "My shift started at five and everything was perfectly normal around here then. It was actually pretty empty until they started bringing the first people in."

As if on cue, a group of police officers in uniform appear at the lobby doors. A few of the men are struggling to hold up a blanket containing what looks like a huge dog--one enormous paw hangs limply over the edge. A female officer trails behind the rest, eyes fixed on the still form in the blanket. The group begins shouting for help as soon as they enter.

A doctor--Wilson thinks his name is Morris--runs to intercept the officers, shaking his head. He's soon joined by a nurse and another doctor and the two groups begin to argue in earnest.

Wilson can't quite make out what they're saying, but it's obvious the doctors don't want to admit the...patient to the hospital. The men lay their burden gently on the floor and things immediately get more heated.

Wilson approaches slowly, drawn to the form lying motionless on the blanket. He crouches down to get a better look.

The creature still looks incredibly dangerous, even though it's obviously dying. The fur is jet-black and shiny, marred by what appears to be a gunshot wound just behind the creature's front leg. Blood bubbles up with each rapid breath.

The wolf's eyes--and this is no dog, Wilson's absolutely sure of that now--are fixed and staring. The white fangs are streaked with blood.

Wilson does the only thing he can think of, even though he knows it's too late. He picks up an edge of the blanket and presses it against the wound.

"He's dying, isn't he?"

Wilson looks up to see the female officer standing above him. She's staring at the wolf, tears glistening in her eyes.

Wilson's once-clean, white cuffs are now soaked with blood. He can feel the wolf's breathing slowing beneath his hands and he knows that the right lung has collapsed. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"We were just--We were getting ready for our shift. In the locker room. And I was talkin' to Sam about--about a party he was throwing for his little girl, Alicia. She's his youngest. She's turning five."

Tears are streaming down her face, but she makes no move to wipe them away. Her words tumble out now, barely louder than a whisper.

"And Sam was talkin' and then he just--he just fell. Like he passed out or something. And I turned around and shouted for the guys to get help and when--when I looked back...Sam was gone. And this thing--this thing was layin' there were Sam was. And it--he started to get up and..."

"I swear I didn't know. I didn't know it was him." She looks up at Wilson and her eyes are empty. "I just--I just drew my gun and--and I shot him. I shot Sam."

Wilson can't think of anything to say, so he just keeps pressing as Sam the wolf takes one last, shuddering breath and dies under his hands.

2.

The wolf first wakes just after dawn. He blinks sleepily in the soft light and, because it's unreasonably early, curls into the blankets, and goes back to sleep.

The second time he wakes, the room is much brighter--warm light falls across the bed and onto the floor, illuminating the dust motes that eddy in front of his eyes. He watches them lazily, thoughts moving slowly and strangely.

He has no conscious awareness of who he is--he just thinks of himself as _the wolf_ \--or where he is. He only knows that he's alive and sleepy, and that everything in this place smells of home.

He dozes until he can no longer ignore the need to pee. Then he extricates himself from the warm nest of blankets he's made in the middle of the bed, stretches, shakes himself off, and yawns hugely. He steps carefully to the edge of the bed and jumps down.

There's a sudden, sharp pain in his back leg when his foot hits the floor, and he whirls around, whimpering, to bite at the spot that hurts. As soon as he does, he realizes it's an old injury--the pain is familiar even if he cannot remember how or when it happened. The wolf licks carefully at his leg until the ache fades from his awareness again.

He limps awkwardly on four legs across the bedroom and into the bathroom, claws clicking out an uneven rhythm against the hardwood floors. The scent of urine is much stronger in here. He sniffs around the edges of the room until he identifies the source of the smell--the toilet. Then it takes him a while to figure out how to lift his leg--he turns in place a few times, paws slipping precariously on the tile floor--before he finally manages to relieve himself.

He stretches and shakes once more, loose skin flapping and scattering old, dry hairs around the bathroom. Now that he feels better, his thoughts turn to a new matter--he follows the enticing scent of food out of the bathroom and down the hallway.

3.

House isn't answering his phone and his office has been dark and empty all morning. Wilson decides to wait until lunchtime to begin panicking. And after that deadline passes with no sign of House, he decides to go looking for the man. Cuddy's made it clear that all personnel are needed during this crisis, but Wilson slips down to the basement and out through the ER entrance as emergency crews rush in with another patient.

The street in front of House's building is as deserted as the rest of Princeton--all the smart people are locked safely inside their homes. Wilson glances nervously around--no werewolves or any other monsters in sight--before making his way quickly up the steps and through the outer doors.

He knocks a few times. The hallway smells faintly of mildew and onions. He's never noticed it before.

"House? Are you alive in there?"

There's no answer.

Cold adrenaline rushes through his body, making his heart pound. He reaches up and grabs the spare key from House's latest and most obvious hiding place.

"I'm coming in. Okay?"

The apartment is cold and dark inside, slightly musty. The curtains are drawn and there's no telltale scent of morning coffee in the air. Although Wilson can't see any signs of violence or disorder beyond House's usual mess, he knows instantly that something's wrong. He takes a tentative step inside. House's backpack, cell phone, and keys are on the table just inside the door. His cane is leaning against the wall. Wilson picks it up, just in case.

"House?"

There are no signs of the man. Wilson glances toward the kitchen. Nothing. He starts down the hallway leading to the bedroom, walking slowly past the overloaded bookcase, hardwood floors creaking under his feet.

House's bedroom looks normal--the comforter and sheets are in disarray and clothes are strewn on the bed. When Wilson gets closer, he identifies them as a pair of boxers and an old t-shirt. He pokes at the lump of blankets with the end of the cane, but House isn't hiding under there.

He has a sudden, horrible fantasy of House, transformed into a drooling monster, reaching out from the darkness under the bed to grab at his ankles. He backs away slowly, feeling like a horny teenager in a slasher flick about to meet a grisly end.

"House? You under there?" God, he feels like an idiot. But he leans down and checks under the bed anyway, gripping the cane tightly. He's relieved to find nothing but an old box and some books.

Wilson sighs and scrubs at his face, looking around in exasperation. Maybe House just decided to go out this morning, without his cane, cell, and keys for...no reason.

He walks across to the bathroom and flips on the light. It smells bad in here and Wilson identifies the odor instantly as urine. There's a large yellow puddle near the toilet.

" _Oh, God!_ House, what the _hell_ \--"

There's a sudden low, groaning sound from the living room and Wilson nearly drops the cane, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He takes a few deep breaths and stays absolutely still, listening for anything else, but he hears nothing.

Wilson decides he has no choice but to head back down the hallway toward the living room because that sound could have come from House--though Wilson has no idea how he could have missed him on the way in--and because that's where the door is. He peers around the corner of the hallway into the living room, wincing as the floor gives a particularly loud creak. And there's nothing--the room is just as empty as it was before.

He's about to relax, about to blame the groaning on old pipes in old buildings, when he hears it: There's a quick scrabbling, like claws on a hardwood floor, and then a soft sigh from behind the couch.

"Oh, _fuck_." Wilson can barely produce more than a whisper. He knows he's being an idiot--the CDC guidelines, released just this morning, state that you should not, under any circumstances, approach affected individuals, and common sense dictates the same--but he has to see for himself. He walks slowly around the end of the couch, holding the cane out in front of him as some sort of feeble defense.

A huge wolf is stretched out along the front of the couch, head resting on its front paws and back legs under the coffee table, apparently sleeping.

Wilson is certainly no wolf expert--this is only the second one he's actually seen in person and the first was just this morning--but it looks...normal to him. Certainly, it doesn't appear to be in any distress. The fur is a mottled brownish, grayish color, darker on the back and fading to a dirty white on the belly and around the muzzle. The wolf's coat looks slightly scruffy, like it had started shedding and then stopped. Wilson counts the animal's respirations as the chest rises and falls because he's not sure what else to do. He's just started to get closer for a better look at the right leg, which looks a little odd, when the wolf suddenly lifts its head.

Wilson freezes. The wolf yawns hugely, revealing a terrifying collection of yellowing teeth, smacks its lips sleepily, and looks right at him.

Wilson can only mutter, " _Oh, shit_ ," because he can't deny that the blue eyes staring back at him are House's.

4.

The tall creature left quickly, smelling of fear.

 _Strange_. The tall creature is part of the pack. And this is the pack's territory. The wolf can't sense any hidden danger lurking. So why was the creature so afraid?

He hauls himself up--the side of his hip and his joints ache slightly from spending hours on the hard floor--and walks slowly around the perimeter of his territory. Nothing seems to be out of place. He recognizes his own scent and the tall creature's scent--now that he's been reminded of it--along with a few others. Unfortunately, the smell of food is still tantalizingly out of reach, contained inside hard shells he can't open. The wolf paws at them again for a few seconds, sending one rolling across the floor, before giving up.

He wanders back into the bedroom, turns a few times on the rug before lying down, and falls asleep.

Some time later, noises wake him--the front door opening and then voices. The wolf lifts his head and sniffs the air. The tall creature is back. He's brought another creature with him, who also smells familiar. And, more importantly, there's a food smell, as well. They've brought food. At least this is worth getting up for.

The two creatures are talking in low voices when the wolf comes in. They freeze when they see him. Both creatures--the darker one, the one the wolf knows best, and this new, light-colored one--smell like fear, so the wolf decides to be cautious.

He approaches slowly in the most non-threatening manner he can think of: head down, tail low. This is his place and they should come to him, but the wolf is clever and resourceful when he has to be, especially when there's food involved.

Both creatures stand rigid against the door as he approaches.

The wolf smells each creature in greeting, but neither makes a move to greet him back. Why are they acting so strange? There's no danger here that he can sense. And they've brought food--a wonderful smell is coming from the package the lighter-colored one is holding. They should be happy.

The wolf wags his tail to show that he, at least, is happy.

Instantly, the two creatures relax. They start talking again. The wolf watches, head cocked, waiting for them to decide it's time to eat. They keep talking and now one is gesturing at the other. The wolf is hungry, but he can be patient. He lies down and puts his head on his paws, waiting, eyes moving from one creature to the other.

Finally, they stop talking and move slowly down the hallway. The wolf gets up and follows them. The light-colored one takes the food out of the bag--the wolf can't help drooling at the scent of meat--and the darker creature has a little bottle that rattles when he shakes it. The wolf can't see what they're doing--they're too tall. He whines loudly in frustration.

At last, they notice him! The dark creature turns and talks soothingly to him. He has food in his hand and he waves it as he moves down the hall slowly. The wolf wags his tail again and follows. When the creature throws the meat into the bathroom, the wolf leaps after it. He gulps it down whole and looks back to see if the creature will offer him more.

He does. And the wolf eats that piece, too, and then another after that. The two creatures talk again, before throwing the rest of the meat to the wolf. The last piece is so large, that he's forced to gnaw it into smaller chunks before swallowing it.

Now that he's eaten, the wolf is sleepy again. The two creatures shut the bathroom door, but he doesn't really mind. This place is as good a place as any to nap. He turns a few times, curls up on the small rug near the shower and, within seconds, he's asleep, dreaming of food.

5.

Wilson and Chase stand outside House's bathroom, waiting silently.

He'd decided to call Chase after first considering and rejecting Cameron--too emotional, though Wilson thinks that's probably sexist of him--and Foreman--who he thinks probably wouldn't come anyway. And Chase has proven to be a good choice. He'd arrived almost instantly, after promising Wilson he wouldn't involve Cameron, at least not yet. He hadn't freaked out, and had simply asked what Wilson needed him to do. Together, they'd gone back to the hospital and picked up a prescription for diazepam. And then they'd driven by Chase's to pick up a steak after searching fruitlessly for an open grocery store.

Ten minutes pass with no noise from within. Wilson cracks the door open far enough so they can both peer inside. House--and Wilson's still getting used to thinking of this creature as House--is lying on his side, sleeping soundly. Or Wilson supposes he's sleeping. He's really not an expert on what wolves look like when they're asleep.

Either way, the Valium they'd dosed him with seems to be doing the trick. House had certainly eaten it happily enough. In Wilson's experience, convincing House to take drugs had never been the issue.

"Do you think he's--" Wilson was going to say 'okay', but that doesn't seem appropriate. "Um, stable?"

Chase shrugs. "How should I know?" Wilson gives him a pained look and he puffs out a breath. "Sorry," he mumbles.

"One of us should probably go in there and check his vitals."

Chase just stares at him like he's lost his mind, so Wilson holds up a hand. "I'll do it."

"I've got your back."

"Great." He eases his way slowly into the bathroom, taking care to step softly and deliberately. "House?" He's not sure why he's whispering, but it feels safer, somehow.

There's no movement from the large, furry lump on the floor except the steady rise and fall of his chest. Wilson has no idea how to evaluate an animal, so he decides to start there--he checks his watch and begins counting breaths. "Respiration rate is...twenty. Does that seem normal?"

"Seems reasonable."

Now he has to figure out how to get a heart rate. He's seen Hector's vet do this dozens of times over the years. How difficult can it be?

"Chase, House keeps a stethoscope somewhere on one of the bookshelves in the living room. Could you get it for me?"

"Sure."

"Oh, and get something to poke him with. Something long. Like a cane or...whatever." He's damn well not going to reach within biting distance without making sure House is well and truly out of it. He might have seemed friendly before, but they've just drugged him--he might be a little grumpy now.

Chase returns with the stethoscope and one of House's canes. He hands both through the door to Wilson. "Poke him near his eye. See if he blinks," he whispers.

"Really?"

"Saw it on a nature show. About hyenas, I think."

Why not, Wilson thinks. He extends the cane and taps gently at House's eye right near the corner. Nothing--just the barest flutter of lashes.

He gives Chase one last bewildered look, then walks quietly over and crouches down by House. He has to lean over and brace his right hand between House's head and his front legs to get close enough to use the stethoscope. If House decides to wake up right now and rip his throat out, Wilson's making it extra easy for him.

But House doesn't stir when Wilson touches him. He listens for a minute to the steady beating of his heart. "Sounds okay," he decides. He sits back on his haunches, considering.

"So...now what? I mean--Are we even sure that's House?" Chase asks. "He seemed awfully...friendly earlier."

Wilson glances back at him.

Chase shrugs. "Sorry, it's just that I'd expect House to be a little more grumpy as a wolf."

"I know what you meant, yeah. It's strange." Wilson had thought getting House to the hospital would be a good idea, but now he's not so sure. Chase has a point, he realizes--he has no idea what to do next. Though, right now the bathroom seems like a pretty good place to keep him. "I guess we wait for him to wake up."

6.

House wakes up on the bathroom floor, naked.

 _Oh shit_ , he thinks, and _Fuck!_ And then he wonders how bad it's going to be. Is he going to have to swallow his pride and call Wilson to come help him? Or can he manage to drag himself into the bedroom alone? And, fuck, where's his phone, anyway? Probably with his clothes.

He lifts his head carefully to look around. Both doors are closed, which is...strange. Normally, he never bothers. Was he taking a shower? He doesn't remember taking one. In fact, he can't remember doing anything this morning. And where the fuck are his clothes, anyway?

It takes House more than a few seconds to realize that his leg is not particularly painful. He reaches down and touches it gently, runs his hand over the scar. There's nothing - only a dull ache that he associates with a bellyful of painkillers. He doesn't remember taking any, though. His head maybe? But he doesn't feel anything there, either, and his hands come away clean--there's no blood. Interesting.

House pushes himself slowly into a sitting position against the cold tiles, groaning when his stiff muscles protest. Blood rushes back into extremities that have been twisted into uncomfortable positions for too long and he starts to shiver.

How long has he been lying here? It feels like hours. House rubs at his forehead with a shaky hand.

There's shuffling on the other side of the door leading to the hall, and then a distinct footstep. House freezes.

"House?" The voice is hesitant. And familiar. "You okay in there?"

" _Chase!?_ " Things are starting to get seriously wacky. House wonders if he's taken any really good drugs lately and just forgotten about it. Kind of defeats the purpose if that's the case. Or maybe not. It might explain his current lack of pain. "What the hell are you doing here?" He manages to get his legs working well enough to stand up, unsteadily. "And didn't I fire you two months ago?"

"Um, yeah--I, uh--Wilson called me and--Look, it's a long story." Chase doesn't even have the decency to sound nervous about breaking into his boss's-- _ex-boss's_ \--apartment. He just sounds tired. "I'm going to get you some clothes. I'll be right back."

"Wait, Chase! Just--" But Chase is already stomping away into the bedroom. " _Damn it_ ," House mumbles. He grabs a towel from the rack and arranges it awkwardly around his waist.

He notices the smell first, face wrinkling at the stench, then the pool of urine around the toilet. He's been know to have bad aim on occasion--particularly when intoxicated--but he can't ever remember missing this spectacularly before. Must be drugs then, he thinks, though he still can't remember taking anything.

Chase is back. He cracks the open the door before House can stop him and holds a pile of clothes out, waiting. House shuffles over and takes them without saying anything. To his relief, Chase shuts the door.

"I'll be in the main room," he calls, voice muffled. "Come out when you're decent."

There's a hint of sarcasm on that last word, and House chuckles to himself in appreciation. Chase has come a long way from the sniveling little suck-up he'd been when he first came to work at PPTH. And he's a halfway decent doctor, too. There's a tiny flash of pride when he thinks that he's responsible for at least some of that.

House stumbles into the clothes Chase brought--an old t-shirt and a pair of jeans. No underwear. _Kinky_.

When he's dressed he makes his way out into the living room, supporting himself carefully against the wall in case whatever happened in the bathroom happens again. He doesn't trust the fact that he feels so normal. Better than normal, actually - he feels good.

He can hear Chase talking to someone, presumably on the phone: "Yeah." A pause. "Just about ten minutes ago, I think." Another pause. House stands in the hallway, waiting. Chase glances over. "Okay. Yeah, I've got it. See you soon." He flips the phone closed.

"Wilson, I presume."

"Yeah. He's coming over. He should be here in a few minutes," Chase says.

"Okay." He draws it out. Chase is still standing in the middle of the room, just watching him. House waits to see if he'll say anything else, maybe offer up some explanation for why he's here, but he doesn't. "Want to tell me what's going on now?"

"Not really. You feeling all right?" Okay. House takes it all back: new Chase is just as annoying as old Chase. He's starting to get pissed off.

"I feel fine." He flings himself recklessly down on the couch in protest. "But I'd feel a whole lot better if you'd just tell me what the fuck is going on. You can start with what you're doing in my apartment."

Chase just turns around and heads into the kitchen. "I'm getting a drink. You want one?"

House shrugs, though Chase obviously can't see it. None of this makes any sense. Maybe he's suffered a massive concussion or some kind of overdose and he's just too far gone to realize it. Reality seems real to him--the smooth leather of the couch under his hand, the groove in the floorboards his big toe is resting on, the familiar, faint smell of old cigars--but he's been fooled before. Everything seemed real back then, too.

It takes him a few seconds to realize Chase is standing in front of him, shaking a glass in his face. House glares at him. He grabs the glass and drains it in one gulp.

He almost misses the look of relief that crosses Chase's face, the subtle release of tension in his shoulders. Almost, but not quite.

"What was in that?"

Chase is surprised for only second--he's always been a good liar. "Bourbon, I think." House gives him a look. Chase sighs. "Diazepam. Ten milligrams," he admits.

And that's pretty interesting, too.

7.

Wilson's just finished checking up on the last of his regular patients in the Oncology ward--even during a crisis, people still have their cancer treatments to deal with--when he gets a call from Chase. House is awake.

He'd hated to leave House--and he felt guilty about leaving Chase alone with a potentially dangerous animal--but he'd had responsibilities that needed attending to. And he'd kept in regular contact with Chase throughout the day.

Wilson checks his watch--it's nearly four in the morning. PPTH started getting the first reports of people changing back, and worried families dragging in their loved ones who'd spent all day as an animal, at around six this evening.

Chase called at about the same time to inform him that House had apparently changed back, as well, and was sleeping soundly--the Valium was still working.

He signs the last chart and hands it over to the exhausted charge nurse, then heads out to his car. The streets are empty and it doesn't take him long to get to Baker Street. He pulls his overcoat on snugly before stepping out of the car. The day that was just bitter cold has turned downright nasty with the setting of the sun. Wilson can practically feel his breath freezing, tiny flakes brushing against his face, as he rushes into House's building.

He knocks once and steps inside, shutting the door behind him. Chase is sitting in a chair next to the TV and House is on the couch, slumped down but still mostly upright. He nods to Chase and steps around the front of the couch to get a better look at their patient.

House is pretty groggy, but he's awake. He rolls his eyes up to Wilson--which seems to take more than a little effort--and says, "You."

"How's he doing?" Wilson asks. He feels pretty guilty about dosing House without his consent, but he's not taking any chances. CDC guidelines are recommending full sedation and confinement for those affected with...with whatever this is.

Chase comes over and stands next to him. They both look down at House, who seems to be trying very hard to glare at them, though he's mostly failing. "All right," Chase says. "He seemed lucid when he woke up. A little confused. But that's normal, considering the circumstances. Basically, he's been his usual, pleasant self." He pauses, considering. "He hasn't asked for any Vicodin yet."

That's strange, Wilson thinks. "I wonder if that's a good sign."

"Or a bad one," Chase suggests.

House closes his eyes and waves at them sloppily. "Continue talking about me like I'm not even here," he slurs. "It's totally not annoying _at all_."

"Sorry, House." Wilson sits down next to him. "We just--We're worried about you. That's all."

He reaches across for House's wrist--the pulse there is a little slow, but steady and strong. The fact that House doesn't immediately yank his arm away--he just stares blankly down at Wilson's hand--is a good indication that he's pretty wasted.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on? Or do I have to guess." House puffs out a breath and rolls his head back against the couch cushion. "Let's see. You and Chase slipped me a mickey and had a little party while I was out of it. Hope you guys had fun." He lifts his head back up to stare earnestly at Wilson. "Tell me, Jimmy: Am I still a virgin _down there?_ "

Same old House, Wilson thinks. It's comforting in a way. "We need to get you to the hospital. There are some tests--"

House is shaking his head. "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on."

"I still think this is a bad idea," Chase says. "What if it happens again? There's no way to isolate--"

Wilson cuts him off. "I'll deal with it. It'll be on me if something happens."

Chase stares at him for a long moment then throws up his hands. "Fine," he says.

Wilson turns back to House, who's watching the two of them curiously. There's usually one surefire way to get him to do anything. "I'll make a deal with you," he says. "You let me drive you to the hospital, and I'll tell you everything on the way there."

House chews on his lip thoughtfully. "Deal," he says.

First, they have to stuff House into some warmer clothes for the drive--button-down over t-shirt, pea coat, hat, and scarf--and, of course, he makes the process as difficult as possible. Then they lead him, stumbling, down to Wilson's car. Chase has to go back for House's cane and then, again, to lock up the apartment after House complains loudly about his neighbors stealing his stuff. Finally--after Wilson thanks Chase for all his help--he and House are on the road.

He waits until the turn onto Witherspoon then he takes a deep breath and tells House everything--everything he can remember, anyway--about the day. It takes him a long time to get through all of it. Wilson parks and they sit in the rapidly cooling car until he finishes.

"And, uh, that's everything." House is just staring at him. Wilson hates it when he does that. "I think," he adds, lamely.

"Huh," House says.

He's obviously taking his time processing everything Wilson's just said. The drugs, no doubt, aren't helping. Wilson decides to just not say anything in the meantime. He wipes some barely-noticeable dust off the edge of one of the heating vents.

House finally shifts in his seat. "So you really believe all that." He scratches at his chin, casually. "You've actually seen this happen? People turning into dogs?"

"Wolves," Wilson corrects him.

"Whatever."

Wilson sighs. "No, not personally," he admits. "Other people have, though. And I've seen the--" He gestures. "The--what happened after. I saw the wolves--I saw _you!_ In your apartment--you were--" He's starting to get agitated. He takes a deep breath to calm himself, closes his eyes, and starts again slowly. "I know what I've seen--I'm not crazy. Other people have seen the same things, too. And I've treated over nine people for bite wounds today, which is a pretty unusual injury for Princeton, New Jersey. It's not just me, House."

"Okay," House says mildly.

" _What?_ "

House rubs the side of his nose in that annoying way that means he's just humoring you. "So, people actually turning into wolves. That's, like, way more likely than the possibility that you just hallucinated everything, right?"

"House, it's not just me! Are you seriously saying the entire world imagined the whole thing? Everyone, everywhere just happened to have a sudden, simultaneous hallucination? And not just that-- _oh, no!_ We all imagined the same damn thing?"

"Well, I didn't see anything," he says petulantly.

"Right," Wilson laughs. "You were too busy pissing on the floor and--and sniffing Chase's crotch!"

House gives him a dirty look.

"Okay, okay-- I don't know what's going on." Wilson rubs at his neck in frustration. He knows how crazy this sounds. And maybe he's being unreasonable expecting House to just accept it. To trust him, for once. "I just think it would be a good idea to get some blood work and do...other tests," he finishes lamely.

House scoffs. "Looking for what? There's nothing wrong with me. Aside from the whole drugging thing, but I'll let that slide."

"House! You were a wolf this morning!"

"So says you. I don't remember any of that."

Wilson throws up his hands in frustration. There's no point in arguing about this because House will never stop. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Look, let's just--let's just get inside where it's warm, at least. We can talk about it in there."

House finally agrees--the cold must be getting to him--and they make their way into PPTH and up to House's office.

Wilson wants him to watch the news. He knows that every channel is showing some variation of the same thing--reports from around the world, scenes of chaos in the larger cities, interviews with those who witnessed the phenomenon, instructions from the CDC and national and local authorities on what to do and where to go if you know someone who's been affected, and there's a video, repeated endlessly, of someone actually changing.

Wilson leans forward to get a better look--he hasn't actually seen it happen yet--but the video is extremely anticlimactic. There's a grainy image of a wolf, then the camera jiggles a bit, and suddenly a naked man--offensive parts blurred-out--is lying in the same spot. That's all--no pop, no flash, no smoke, no _nothing_. It's disappointing, somehow. This is the way the world ends, Wilson thinks.

The upside is that House now seems convinced that something is definitely going on, though he hasn't decided yet what that something is. After about an hour of silently flipping channels, House turns the TV off and sits back. Wilson waits patiently for whatever profound response House comes up with.

"Huh."

"You already said that."

"I did?" House squints at Wilson. "When?"

"In the car."

He thinks about it for a moment. "Then I guess I should say 'hmm' instead. Wouldn't want to repeat myself."

Wilson shrugs. "Seems reasonable," he agrees.

House pushes himself carefully to his feet. He's still slightly wobbly, but Wilson resists the urge to help him. He's suddenly got that determined look on his face--the one he gets when there's a puzzle to solve. Wilson knows it all too well.

House walks over the white board, picks up a marker, stares into space for a moment, then writes 'Werewolves' in big letters at the top. He eyes the board critically for a moment, nods, and lowers himself slowly into a chair at the conference table.

Wilson sits down across from him, looking back and forth between House and the board. House has that faraway look in his eyes. Wilson's pretty sure it's not entirely due to the diazepam.

"You got a diagnosis yet?"

"Not yet. Give me a minute," House mumbles.

Wilson's tired--he wants to sleep so badly--but he really wants to get those tests done, too. House _seems_ perfectly normal. He's still obviously slightly impaired, but that's expected.

Wilson checks his watch again, impatiently. It's six-thirty--the first hint of gray light is visible through the windows. It's usually one of his favorite times of day--the end of night's hold on the world and a new start--but not this morning. He's just not ready for a new day. He rubs his tired eyes with the heels of his hands.

"House?"

"Hm?" House is still lost in thought, his eyes distant.

"You're not going to figure this all out right now. Especially not when you're stoned. So will you just let me draw some blood?"

"No." House pulls at his lip, thinking. "When did it happen? What was everyone doing?"

"House--" Wilson groans. He slumps down in his chair and covers his face with his hands. "I don't know what everyone else was doing. I was asleep, in bed, alone." _Like I want to be now_.

"Well, that's boring. And someone has to know. What did the news say? The papers?"

"House--"

"You don't even know what to look for yet, so how do you expect to find anything? What labs are you going to order?" He looks at Wilson, waiting for an answer.

Wilson doesn't really have one. He's not an expert in these matters. He's always known his enemy by name before, been able to recognize the clues it leaves in the human body. Maybe House is right--maybe they just don't know enough yet. But he has to do something.

He shrugs. "I think we should start with the basics, run a CBC and a chem panel. Then go from there."

House is staring into space again. "We don't know enough yet." He says it so slowly; Wilson knows he's come to some sort of decision.

He gets up again. Wilson almost jumps up when he lists to port unexpectedly, but House manages to recover. "Go down there and ask around. Try to find out when it happened. And get me a coffee, too, while you're at it." He rubs at his forehead. "I can't think like this."

"House--" Wilson knows it's no use, but he tries anyway.

" _After_ you get back we can talk all about your stupid tests." House disappears around the corner into his office. "I'm going to see what I can find on the internet."

Wilson's been dismissed. He heads out to the elevators and down to the lobby. The hospital is absolutely quiet compared to yesterday, and the few people he does pass look like the walking dead. He decides to stop off at the bathroom before doing House's bidding.

He's shaking his hands dry when his reflection catches his eye over the bathroom sink. He looks terrible--pale face and dark eyes floating above a pink scrub top. But he thinks it's forgivable because everyone looks terrible this morning. He examines his ears. They seem normal, even if he can't remember ever noticing what they looked like before--no points, no fur. He snarls at the mirror. No fangs. He's fine.

Wilson checks his watch. It's almost seven now. He's been awake for more than 48 hours. He doesn't feel up to going back for round two with House. Doesn't feel like wrestling him for a blood sample. He scrubs at his eyes and thinks about finding some coffee instead.

He wanders back out into the lobby. There's no one manning the little coffee booth there. Wilson guesses that all the non-essential staff have been told to stay home today. He'll have to head back up to the lounge--someone is sure to have made a fresh pot.

He smiles at another tired-looking nurse as he passes by the clinic and Cuddy's office. Both are dark and empty--the clinic doesn't normally open until eight, anyway. He's pretty sure Cuddy hasn't gone home. She's probably attending some hastily assembled meeting upstairs, discussing policies and procedures. Wilson doesn't envy her the--

His thoughts are interrupted by shouting from upstairs, above the balcony. It sounds more panicked than he'd expect from trained professionals dealing with a medical crisis. The nurse he passed just a few seconds ago runs by, beeper sounding.

"Hey!" Wilson manages to stop her before she rushes up the stairs. "What's going on?"

"I don't know--page just says '911'."

There's more shouting now, from two different wings. _It's happening again_ , he thinks and then, _Oh God, House!_

He takes the stairs two at a time up to the fourth floor and dashes around the corner just in time to see a security guard drawing his gun outside of House's office. Wilson nearly panics when the man raises the gun and points it through the glass.

"Wait. Please--" The guard looks over, startled, but his arm doesn't waver. Wilson can see that the other man is just as terrified as he is. He tries desperately to remember the guard's name. He knows the names of practically everyone on this floor, all the regular staff--he's fucking _great_ with names--but he can't remember this guy's name. " _Please_. Don't shoot. I'm--I'm a doctor," he stammers. He's gulping down air, trying desperately to catch his breath, to stay calm.

The guard takes a deep breath and says, "I came around the corner and he--he jumped at me. Hit the glass. Scared the shit out of me." His hands are shaking.

"I know. He doesn't know what he's doing." Wilson walks forward slowly. His heart is racing. "He's--he's a patient. Please, don't shoot."

The guard takes another shaky breath and says, almost to himself, "that glass is super thick. There's no way he can get through." Finally, he lowers the gun and turns to Wilson. "I'm so sorry, man. I overreacted." He wipes a shaking hand across his brow. "I'm sorry. But, _damn_."

"It's okay." Wilson feels like collapsing with relief.

"Jeez, I--I almost shot him. I almost shot a person," he says quietly.

"It's okay," Wilson says again. He knows he's repeating himself, but the rush of adrenalin is making it hard to think of anything intelligible.

The security guard's radio suddenly crackles with static, making both of them jump. He yanks it off his belt and thumbs a button. "This is Arn. Go ahead." There's a frantic voice on the radio, barely audible, but Wilson manages to make out 'third floor' and 'assistance'. "Got to go," Arn says, slipping the radio back on his belt. "You need any help up here, doc?"

"No, I'm--I'm good, thanks."

"Okay, doc." He's already running for the stairs. "And sorry again!"

"It's okay," Wilson says weakly.

When he's sure the other man is gone, Wilson walks carefully toward House's office. There's a small smear of blood on the glass about three feet or so from the ground. The wolf-- _House_ , Wilson corrects himself--is pacing in a clumsy circle at the back of the office, near the desk.

When he sees Wilson at the glass, he stops and stares, swaying slightly. There's a little bit of red on the end of his nose where he must have smashed it, but otherwise he looks fine. Still slightly stoned, if a wolf can look stoned.

"Hey," says Wilson quietly. Now that the shock is wearing off, he's beyond exhausted and he thinks maybe he's finally used up any capacity to be terrified. The next horrible thing that happens will get absolutely no reaction from him, he decides.

He slumps against the cool glass and slides down until he's sitting with his back against it, head in his hands.

He sits that way for a few minutes, breathing calmly and wondering if he'll just fall asleep right here in the hall, when there's a soft thump against the glass at his back. He peers over his shoulder.

House is leaning up against the glass on the other side, so they're pressed back to back. Wilson thinks they must look like the world's strangest Siamese twins.

House looks back at Wilson and whines mournfully, low in his throat--it sounds like a lament.

"Yeah," Wilson agrees.


	2. Winter to Spring

8.

House slips quietly--as quietly as he can manage, anyway--around the back of his tent, between the rows of empty clotheslines, and out beyond the edge of the pack's territory.

His dog tags jingle loudly when he trips over a hidden rock and he curses and looks around warily before wrapping his scarf tightly around his neck to muffle the sound. Hopefully, no one was around to hear that--tonight's adventure calls for absolute secrecy.

He'd managed to spread misinformation about where he might be to several people--telling Dee, the only pack member he can halfway stand, he'd be helping out in the infirmary all night, mentioning to their warden that he was feeling like crap and he'd be lying down in his tent so no one better fucking bother him, and signing himself up for dishwashing duty on the roster in the pack's common area, but not on the master list kept in the mess hall--so, with any luck, no one will be able to find him. He's been here for three weeks now and he's only had time to explore a small part of the camp grounds.

He's not exactly sure what he's looking for, but he hates to be anywhere without knowing everything there is to know about a place, and he's only just scratched the surface here. The detention camp is fairly large--over forty acres, House guesses--large enough to make exploration a problem for someone with mobility issues. And time issues.

He's been managing about a mile per hour. His leg isn't bothering him so much anymore, and he's found that he hasn't needed to rely on a cane to get around, which is nice. But his leg still doesn't work worth a damn--so he always gives himself two hours to get anywhere: one hour out, and one hour to get back. He's been extra careful to leave a little wiggle room after the last time he failed to make it back to his tent before dawn--he'd lost his favorite pair of pants that night. The problem so far has mainly been finding two hours of uninterrupted time, or creating it.

Most of the camp lies in an open field where the forest has been cut back and plowed under, leaving an empty space surrounded by dark stands of pines and leafless hardwoods. During his ramblings, House has stumbled once or twice over low tree stumps hidden in deep snow, the roots slashed and torn from the earth. The cleared area extends from around the main buildings--personnel offices, the isolation ward and hospital, guards' quarters, the mess hall and kitchens, the infirmary, bathrooms, and tent camps--and out to the perimeter fences. Except to the south, where the forest has been left standing inside the fences. This is his destination tonight.

House pauses at the edge of the last row of tents, his breath making little eddies in the cold air. A full moon reflecting on the white field of snow turns the night as bright as day.

Maybe this isn't such a great idea, he thinks. He'll be the only dark shape in all that white, totally exposed. Normally, he'd only have to worry about that asshole, Jackson, and his little cronies spotting him--they'd love to catch him alone--but on a night like tonight the guards will have no trouble picking him out.

Technically, they're not prisoners, they're patients, so he's allowed to go wherever he wants during free time as long as he stays inside the cage. Unfortunately, House has broken enough rules in the past week to be put on probation. Or whatever they're calling it here--during his latest scolding, the warden gave it some fancy name that House forgot immediately.

He looks around. This section of the camp is pretty deserted right now. All the good little doggies are back at the main buildings performing menial tasks--scrubbing bathroom floors, doing dishes, washing clothes--it's unlikely that anyone will come by. Still, he'd hate to get thrown into isolation again. This is the only freedom he has now and he'd like to enjoy it.

All very important considerations. "Fuck it," he mutters, and steps out into the night.

Once House is past the well-traveled areas, the snow is deeper, forcing him to slow down. The day must have been sunny--there's a thin layer of ice on top and his boots meet resistance before crunching through and sinking down to the ground. The trees seem impossibly far away, across a vast, glittering ocean, but House knows it's an illusion--his world is much smaller now.

The first few weeks after the incident, when all of the affected and those who'd been bitten were rounded up and forced into quarantine, were the worst for him. His tiny space was a converted cell in what looked like an old state penitentiary, with a single cot, a toilet, a sink that didn't work, and straw on the floor that was changed every night. All personal items were prohibited for safety reasons because some idiot apparently managed to eat all of his stuff and get impacted. They were allowed out only for testing and when the straw was changed. The guards wore latex gloves and masks to avoid any possible contagion.

House had spent his nights there, lying on his cot, trying to come up with a diagnosis for a disease that seemed impossible, except that it existed. He believed it now. How could he not?

Still, he and Wilson had found nothing in the blood work they'd eventually done. Or in any of the other tests they'd managed to perform before the National Guard had come on the third day and practically dragged him away from the whiteboard screaming, if not kicking. And, way back then, no one else at any major research labs had found anything either.

Needless to say, he didn't come up with anything brilliant while he was in his cell.

And trying to talk to the arrogant pricks who were using them as lab rats got him nothing but a nice sedative injection, which, House has to admit, he appreciated occasionally. Sometimes he'd even gone out of his way to be as obnoxious as possible. The drugs just made it easier to deal with everything, easier to ignore the constant, soft crying from the woman in the cell next to him, the strange nightmares he didn't understand, and the soul-crushing boredom, the loneliness. Sometimes he just wanted to drift.

And sometimes--sometimes he'd spend hours calculating just what it would take to force the guards to draw their guns. What it would take to get them to kill him. What if he made a grab for a guard's weapon? And would he have to bite someone? Those were his worst hours.

Then, he'd suddenly been moved here, without much fanfare or any kind of explanation--he just woke up one night and found himself a guest of the Roote Hollow Detention Facility in Pennsylvania, courtesy of the US government. Apparently, some moron psychologist had decided that being locked up in solitary confinement for twenty-four hours a day might be damaging to one's mental health.

He wonders which members of congress voted to approve their new living quarters--probably the same morons who thought Guantanamo Bay was a great idea. He's not even sure how many different camps there are around the country--or the world, for that matter--but based on the last estimates he'd heard on the number of people affected, and assuming the camps are all about the same size, there's got to be at least two hundred or so.

This particular camp houses about four hundred adults, and fifty or so children, in a separate area. House imagines life here is similar to what you'd get if you crossed a refugee camp with a zoo--cold, dirty, rough, smelly, mostly boring, and completely shitty. Maybe it's more like living in a wild animal park than a zoo--he's really not sure--but at least he has some room to roam now.

House has finally reached the trees. He stops for a minute to rest. His leg is aching, he's cold, and his jeans are soaked through up to his knees, but it feels good to be alone out here. He can almost imagine there's no fence surrounding him.

The tracks of a single wolf, leading from back towards the camp and into the forest, mar the pristine snow. House wonders if he's been out here before. He supposes it's possible. He's woken up on a few nights and found himself cold and wet, yet sweating and puffing for breath, like he's been running for hours. And it's on those nights that he feels the strongest connection to his other self--a vague sense of purpose, a restlessness that he can't shake or understand.

These tracks can't be more than two days old--no new snow has fallen since then. House follows the trail into the trees.

It's quieter here. The last of the camp noise fades as he moves deeper into the forest, and he pauses every few steps to listen for other sounds: the dry, papery rustle of leafless branches, the soft pattering of snow falling from limbs, and the distant hum of the electric fence. That's the direction the tracks head, so House decides to go that way, too.

After about twenty minutes of hiking, made more difficult because he has to climb over and under fallen logs and branches, he reaches the perimeter fence. It's disappointingly similar to the fence over near the tents. He's not sure why he was expecting it to be any different out here.

The inner fence is chain link, about fifteen feet tall, threaded with wires carrying electricity, and topped with barbs. House can't stand to get closer than six feet or so--the high pitched whine of the current is almost painful to his newly sensitive ears. There's also something else--he thinks it might be the electromagnetic field--that disturbs him, sets his hair standing on end, and makes his teeth buzz in their sockets. It's interesting.

Beyond the inner fence, the trees have been cleared to create a dirt road about ten feet wide. And beyond that lies the outer fence. It's a mirror image of the first, only this one, House supposes, is designed to keep out hippies, activists, bestiality enthusiasts, and other assorted freaks and anti-government types.

He brushes some crusty snow off a log and sits down, staring at the fence.

He's always disappointed when no one appears on the other side. Aren't people curious about what goes on in here? Isn't there some poor sap out there whose sweetheart is unjustly imprisoned? Or some ambitious werewolf groupie just waiting for a chance to break in?

Once, back during the first week, he'd been sitting and staring at the fence, when a man--obviously a deer hunter, who'd accidently strayed onto government land--had come crashing out of the bushes, scaring the shit out of House in the process. He'd shouted at the guy, had practically begged for news of the outside world, but the hunter had just shaken his head and disappeared quietly back into the forest. And House got two days in isolation for violating the camp's rules on outside contact. Since then, there'd been no one.

He sits, thinking, for as long as he can. Nothing comes to him in this new place, no great ideas, no sudden insights--not that he really expected anything. Instead, he's left with only the quiet sounds made by snow and trees.

House doesn't have a watch with him, but at some point he knows it's time to head back, the night is getting closer to dawn. He's gotten used to marking the night's slow progress towards day, and the time when he changes. He won't risk another freezing, late night trek to his tent through the snow, naked.

This is a pretty good spot, though. House knows he'll be back.

The trip home always takes him longer--he's less focused, and he's tired, and there's really nothing to look forward to at the end of the journey except another blackout that bleeds into another night.

So by the time he reaches the edge of camp, House is really not expecting to be ambushed.

One second he's trudging wearily along beside the red brick wall of the infirmary, eyes following one awkward step after another, and the next second he's lying on his back in the snow, blinking up at the clear night sky and wondering what the hell just happened.

He doesn't have to wonder for long--Jackson, in all his misshapen, dimwitted glory, looms over him suddenly. He grabs House by the coat collar and hauls him to his feet.

"Where the fuck have you been?" The man's breath smells rancid, like he's actually been feeding on carrion. For all House knows, he could be. There are flecks of something in his red mustache that don't look like anything that came from dinner.

"Out for a night on the town," House says mildly. Jackson is slightly shorter, but he's stronger and he certainly weighs more--he might be the only person who's actually managed to gain weight since coming here. Plus, he's got the advantage of having two working legs. There's no way House could beat the other man in a physical confrontation, so he doesn't try. He just stands, unresisting, in Jackson's grip, wondering how so much ugly and so much stupid ended up in a single person. Must've been selective breeding.

"You think you're so _goddamn_ smart, but you're nothing in here, man. _Nothing_." Jackson shakes him a little to make his point.

House considers asking whether or not his parents were siblings or just cousins, but instead he says, "Can I go now?"

The problem with Jackson started about a week after House arrived at the camp, when they'd all somehow sorted themselves out into packs. House still isn't quite sure how that worked. He'd just found himself waking up each night with the same group of people, in the same places. He'd held out longer than anyone else just because of the principle of the thing--but, eventually, it was easier to move his stuff.

Their little pack consists of about thirty or so mismatched and miserable people. The leader, a former high school teacher named Ganesh, had apparently been chosen in some dog ritual that probably involved sniffing a lot of ass. House has no idea why he sticks around--he's obviously low-ranking, possibly the lowest ranked member in the pack, which is not surprising considering his leg. However, his dog self apparently finds some kind of fulfillment in groveling and crawling around on the ground in front of a bunch of losers.

Much to his dismay, House discovered eventually that he felt pathetically attached to this group. He doesn't quite understand how that's possible. Sure, he absolutely hates some of them--Jackson, of course, and Behr, another asshole--and merely tolerates the rest, but he can't quite force himself to leave.

He also can't just follow the damn rules. Looking Jackson in the eye right now, for example, is a bad idea. House can't help himself. He knows he'll pay for it later, but it's the only weapon he has.

Jackson tightens his grip, and House can tell the other man is fighting the urge to beat the shit out of him. Those old social niceties are hard to shake, though, and it's still considered taboo to hit a cripple.

When Jackson finally breaks his gaze and flings House from him in disgust, House is almost disappointed.

"Get the fuck out of here," Jackson mutters. He spits, wipes his mouth, and stalks away.

House waits until the other man is out of sight before picking himself carefully off the ground again. There's no point in trying to brush off the snow because his pants are already soaked through. He's tired and achy, and now he's also got a sore ass, but it's been a pretty good night, considering.

He makes it back to his tent and strips out of his wet clothes just before dawn.

9.

After months of research, the CDC concludes that the affliction--whatever it is--does not appear to be transmissible. And on January 15th the various agencies in charge of making policies regarding the care and feeding of the affected finally decide to allow visitors to come and see their loved ones in captivity. Of course, as is the case with all government bureaucracies, the demand for the service is great and the capacity for visitors is small, so anyone interested is forced to submit their names to a long waiting list.

Wilson, Cuddy, Chase, and Cameron sign up, but they all agree that the first person who gets chosen will give that spot up for Wilson. It's late February when Wilson finally gets a visitor's confirmation in the mail, complete with directions to the facility as well as the date and time and visiting procedures. He hasn't seen House in over four months.

The drive up to the detention facility in Roote Hollow, Pennsylvania is a long one and made more difficult by the nearly constant snow falling gently throughout the trip--not quite enough to coat the interstate in a cloak of white, stranding travelers along the sides, but enough to make nervous drivers tap their brakes and slow everyone down. Wilson's always been good at planning ahead, however, and he's given himself ample time to account for both the unfamiliar route and the weather.

Still, he worries during the long drive. About House, about how he's coping in what basically amounts to a prison. He drives further, past open fields and uniform stands of dark trees, past fewer and smaller towns until there are no more signs along the road except those for the Roote Hollow Detention Facility. Wilson hopes it won't be too bad--he's concocted horrible visions of the place, no doubt inspired by the stories of Auschwitz his grandmother Ethel used to tell Wilson and his brothers when they were children.

In reality, the place is not so impressive, at least not in the dark. About an hour after dusk, he pulls off the empty main road and onto a gravel track--marked with a sign proclaiming that the RHDF is open to authorized personnel only. After about a minute, he comes to a new-looking guard station flanked on either side by barbed wire topped chain link fence. A camouflage-wearing guard with a slightly lopsided crew cut asks for Wilson's ID.

"Visitor for G. House?" he asks.

"Yes, sir." Maybe 'sir' is not the right thing to call a National Guardsman, but Wilson has no idea about these things.

The guard consults a few more files, steps out of the hut and around to the back of Wilson's car. He writes something on a clipboard. Wilson's palms are sweating now, but the guard seems calm. This must be routine.

He hands the clipboard to Wilson.

"Sign here please, sir."

Wilson does.

"Okay. You're going to follow this road until you get to the main buildings. On your left there's a sign that says 'visitor parking'. You park in that lot and head on over to the main entrance. It's obvious, you can't miss it. They'll give you a pass and you'll have one hour." He hands Wilson his driver's license back.

"Thanks."

Wilson heads up the road. He feels more together, less jittery, now that he's inside the gates.

The main buildings are squat, ugly things made of cinderblocks. They don't look new, so they must have just been co-opted for this purpose recently. Wilson wonders what they were built for, but they don't look like anything he'd expect to find way out in the middle of nowhere. He tries to get a glimpse of the rest of the camp, but there's nothing except darkness and trees beyond the reach of the sodium arc lights.

He parks in the lot--there are a few other cars there already--and walks over to the brightly-lit main entrance. There's a newish sign to the left of the door that lists a number of restricted items. Among the usual things such as weapons and drugs, there are a few strange ones like, 'no food', 'no cameras', and 'no phones'. Inside, it looks like the cheaply-furnished waiting room of a low-end dentist's office, except for the armed guards sitting behind the main desk.

A female guard takes Wilson's name down. She looks tired, like she's just woken up and she yawns repeatedly as she checks his name against her list. Another guard frisks him briefly, explaining that they don't have a metal detector installed yet what with budget issues and all. Wilson has to leave his cell phone at the desk. They give him a visitor's pass to clip on his lapel and tell him to have a seat and it'll be a little while.

Wilson sits down on a brown couch across from a young mother who's trying to distract a fussy, red-faced baby. He smiles at her and she tries to smile back, but it doesn't reach her eyes.

After about half an hour of waiting, the room is beginning to fill. Most of the visitors look like family members--they talk quietly amongst themselves in nervous, little groups. Wilson is one of the few single people in the room. He feels awkward, like he doesn't belong.

Finally, a guard announces that it's time and asks them to please follow him. Wilson joins the rest of the group at the back as they shuffle down a hallway, through two metal gates, and into another room. This one is slightly larger than the waiting room. The freshly painted white walls are adorned with bright posters conveying uplifting messages, and a cheap, industrial carpet on the floor. There are various mismatched tables with ashtrays and chairs scattered around in little groupings, and the visitors are asked to take a seat.

Wilson deliberates for a moment before choosing a tiny folding card table with two chairs in one corner. There's a calendar hanging on the wall to his left--it's open to February, which depicts a wolf standing stoically in a scene of falling snow. That's... _odd_ , he thinks. Wilson wonders if it's meant to be ironic. He wouldn't expect anyone who worked in a place like this to have a sense of humor, but he's been wrong before.

He's just decided that the choice of calendar is completely un-ironic--the rest of the cheerful decorations around the room seem to support his theory--when a second set of doors open.

The assortment of people that enter are shabby looking. They'd look like prisoners, except their clothes--second-hand cast-offs at best--don't match. They remind Wilson of the destitute men and women he's served food to at various homeless shelters throughout the years.

The visitors' quiet murmuring is suddenly replaced by shouts of greeting and happy sobbing. Wilson stands up and cranes his head to see around the groups of reuniting families. Finally he spots House, hanging back near the doors, searching intently. He makes eye contact with Wilson--and there's a distinct flash of relief on his face that is so uncharacteristic Wilson is instantly worried.

House walks carefully around the little islands of happy families and over to the card table. His limp seems worse, Wilson thinks, but then he notices House isn't using a cane. He tries to reassure himself that it isn't a bad sign.

"Hey," House says quietly.

"Hey," Wilson replies. House won't look him in the eye, which Wilson knows means he's self-conscious. "Want to sit down?"

As House eases himself carefully down into the chair, Wilson gets the first good look at his friend. He's thinner, maybe, and his beard is a little shaggier, but he looks okay. He's definitely paler, Wilson thinks, but that's expected. The clothes he's wearing are slightly dirty--a blue plaid flannel under an old-looking coat with a torn shoulder--but they smell like they've just been washed. Wilson's been preparing himself for the very worst, so this slightly shabbier, but still familiar, version of House is almost a relief.

House shifts in his seat slightly and Wilson can hear a metallic, jingling sound. He notices a flash of silver at House's neck. He'd just assumed, rather stupidly, that House was wearing some sort of necklace, but now he can see that it's a chain with a couple of metal tags hanging from it. There's no clasp, and it's snug enough around House's neck that there's no way he'd be able to pull it over his head.

"I see you've noticed my bling."

Wilson looks up, guiltily. House is watching him with sharp eyes--he obviously knows Wilson's been examining him. He's got to expect that by now. "Yeah, it's--it's a nice touch."

"They hooked us all up when we got here. One of the many perks."

"Well, silver is definitely your color." The banter feels good, feels safe, but he needs to know that House is okay. He pauses, wondering how to start. "So, seriously, how've you been?"

"I could lie and tell you it's been great, but..." House shrugs dramatically. "It sucks and I don't want to talk about it, okay? So, instead, why don't you tell me where we stand in terms of this thing? Have they found a cause yet? What is it? It's got to have a genetic component, right? It's obviously not a virus. Please tell me it's not a virus. There are too many families involved for it to be just a coincidence--"

There's almost no way to stop House's brain once he gets started on a problem. Wilson holds up his hands. "House. Slow down."

House rolls his eyes and slumps down in his chair. "I'm fine," he moans.

Wilson must look doubtful because House sighs and leans forward again. "Look, we've got--what?--one hour? I don't have a phone, the internet, TV, a newspaper. Or... _anything_." He counts these off with his fingers. "I want to know what's going on. I _need_ to know."

"House, it's just--" He's not sure why he feels so guilty about this. He knows they're isolated, but don't they get any news in here? "There's nothing for me to tell you. We haven't found anything."

House is silent for a second. "Just you guys? Or--?"

"No, not just us. No one's found anything. The CDC, the World Health Organization, there's even a new international committee, I forget the name, some acronym--they're all working on it, but..." He frowns. "They really haven't told you anything?" It's pretty hard for him to believe.

House shakes his head slowly, eyes distant. "Nothing."

Wilson's had three months to get used to the idea that there are no answers on the way. House, apparently, has had about a minute. "What have they found?" he asks, quietly.

"Not much." He's read everything just about everything on the subject that exists, but now he can't recall a single thing of interest. "There's some evidence that, uh, changing purges some viral infections. Your eyes have more rods in them now, somehow. Also, Brown at Harvard, I think, found some evidence that you've got a rudimentary _tapetum lucidum_ in your eyes, although that's debatable--there's some question about his methods." He scratches at the back of his head. "And that's about all I can think of." If he'd known he would have brought the articles, a recent newspaper, anything.

House is quiet for a moment. He pulls at his bottom lip and looks off to the side. Wilson knows he's trying to process everything--he's also probably just realized that he isn't coming home, probably not for a long time.

Eventually, House seems to come to some sort of decision. He folds his hands on the table. "So, how's life without me? Boring?"

Wilson knew this was going to be hard, but he hadn't suspected he'd be breaking this kind of news. "House, look--"

"Not your fault," House says. He looks up finally, and Wilson can see everything he needs to know in those eyes, everything that House can't say. And that's always been enough.

Wilson nods in understanding. "It's been quiet. Brenda threw a going-away party for you. I attended, of course, but I left early out of respect and I only had one drink."

House smiles reluctantly.

"Seriously, though. We--we've missed you. Me, obviously. Cuddy misses you--she doesn't have anyone to comment on her sex life. Or wardrobe. I've tried, but," he shrugs, "you know how it is--my talents lie elsewhere. Cameron _definitely_ misses you." House snorts. "Foreman's running your department right now. He brought Cameron and Chase back."

"Good choice," House says.

"But it's not the same without you."

"Obviously not. How many patients have they killed?"

"None so far. And that's not what I meant."

House is quiet for a little while, glaring at the floor. "Yeah," he says, and taps his fingers on the table. Wilson knows he doesn't want to talk about any of this.

"So..." House draws it out. Wilson decides to let him change the subject. "You bring me anything? The porn selection in here is just appalling. Government issue, and all."

He looks so pathetically hopeful that Wilson chuckles and shakes his head.

10.

It's a stormy day--the wind snaps tent flaps against their poles and sweeps clothes carelessly left out to dry onto the wet ground. Little bursts of snow and freezing rain fly sideways to patter against the thick winter coats of the pack.

The wolf watches the others, stomach growling with hunger. The tall creatures brought food just after dawn--a mangled deer carcass. It's old meat, grown cold and stiff, but still preferable to the usual tasteless chunks they get, and the pack feeds eagerly.

Except the wolf. Instead, he paces around the outside edge of the group, not daring to approach any closer. He's pushed the boundaries too far in the last few days and he has to be careful, tread lightly. Even the smallest pack member, a dark female with a torn ear, is allowed to eat her fill.

He whines and sits down, tense and desperate for an opening. The smell of blood on the wind is making him reckless. There's an unguarded space between two pack members. He slinks closer, hoping to grab a small bit of the carcass.

He's close enough to almost taste the meat in his mouth, when he's suddenly hit from the side. It's the pack's main beta, a huge reddish-brown male. The wolf manages to regain his feet quickly, just as the beta lunges for his throat. He dodges to the side, and tries to get around the other wolf so he can retreat, but his way is blocked by the pack's second beta, a short, but heavy wolf with a mangy coat. Suddenly, he's trapped between the two of them.

The wolf spins around, snarling, when the large red wolf snaps at his back leg. The other one is quicker, however, and the wolf's teeth close over nothing but air. He spins again, tail tucked between his legs and ears back, when the mangy wolf attacks from the other side.

Together, the two of them harass him--darting in to bite at a leg or ear then leaping away--until he's stumbling and panting, frothing at the mouth with exhaustion. The wolf knows they mean to kill him--he knows he's fighting for his life.

The rest of the pack looks on silently, waiting.

Finally, one of his attackers retreats too slowly and the wolf manages to sink his teeth into the mangy one's back leg. There's a satisfying yelp of pain, and the wolf bites down harder and shakes his head, trying to do as much damage to his enemy as possible. He can feel the blood spattering his face and taste it trickling down his throat.

He doesn't dare let go--the pain barely registers when the red wolf grabs his throat and begins shaking him. He manages to hold on, despite being practically lifted off his feet, his claws scrabbling frantically at the muddy ground. The mangy one's yelps become more desperate until he's practically screaming. The wolf can feel his own skin tearing, his own blood spattering, but he doesn't care--nothing else matters anymore.

He doesn't notice when the tall creatures finally arrive, yelling and scattering the rest of the pack. He doesn't notice when the red wolf lets go of his neck and runs. He _can't_ let go.

There's a loud bang and something hard hits him, knocking him to the ground. He manages to regain his feet and he runs from the noise and the tall ones, terrified and directionless.

There's nowhere to go. The wolf ends up cowering in the mud behind one of the out-buildings, shivering with weakness and fear. The tall creatures come and surround him, but he's too tired to run away. Their voices are soothing, calming, but their smells are strange--none of these are his creatures. He bares his teeth at them and growls a warning when one gets too close. They back off.

There's another, terrifying bang and something bites him on his flank. He yelps and grabs at the thing attacking him, snaps at the cold metal. He tries to run again, but he can only take a few steps before his legs collapse under him. The ground is spinning somehow and his head is too heavy to lift. _Get up! Get up and run!_ But he can't.

And then everything is dark.

* * *

Hours later, the pain wakes him. There's a sharp tugging at his neck, and he gasps in surprise, but it subsides almost immediately.

His mind settles gently into the familiar haze of medication. Morphine, he thinks. Or Dilaudid. But there's something else as well, that he can't quite identify--his body is too loose, his thoughts are more scattered than they should be. And he has no idea where he is.

He can hear shuffling around him, a soft murmuring of voices, and the antiseptic smells of a hospital fill his nose. He squints into the bright light, but he can make out only vague, moving shapes that might be people.

Is this--? Has he been shot? His neck aches and he vaguely remembers the man with a gun, the noise and the smell of gunpowder, the bullet--or was it teeth?--cutting through his jugular. House tries to reach up, feel his throat, but his hands are too heavy and he can't seem to make them to do what he wants. After a few attempts, he's too weak to try again. He almost cries in frustration.

"Can you open your eyes?" There's a voice asking him questions. Wilson? He tries to obey, but it hurts--the light is so bright. He sees a whitish blur with a darker blur at the top. He thinks it must be Wilson.

"Greg? Can you open your eyes?" It's not Wilson, House thinks. Wilson would never call him by his first name.

He's suddenly confused. Wilson was there-- _is_ there--when he was shot, right? Maybe he's remembering it wrong. But that's not right either because it's happening now. How can he remember something that's happening now? And where is Wilson?

"Greg. Greg!" Someone--the doctor?--tries to get his attention. "You're going to be all right, Greg." The voice sounds reassuring, but he doesn't recognize it, can't trust it. "Just try not to move, okay?"

He wants to ask what's going on, but he can't seem to make his mouth cooperate either. Nothing comes out except a series of pathetic grunts.

"We're getting you some more medication. Just hold on, okay?" The doctor blur is back and he has a green blur with him. A nurse? House really doesn't want the extra meds. He wants to know where he is and what's happened to him. He's suddenly remembered that he was shot last year, and this is different because his gut doesn't hurt. He needs to tell them to call Wilson.

He's just working out how to make a 'w' sound when the new meds begin to work and he drifts gently back down into oblivion.

11.

Wilson's phone rings just as he's leaving the office for his eleven o'clock appointment. He gets Brown to cover all his appointments that can't be broken and asks his secretary to reschedule the rest, and he spends the next three hours driving up to the Roote Hollow detention facility.

Wilson barely notices the scenery flashing by--gray, skeletal trees against an equally gray landscape, winter grown old and dirty. His mind keeps replaying the call: House in a fight, not critically injured, but hurt, in isolation. The veterinarian he'd talked to--a doctor McIntire--said she'd do the best she could to bend the rules when Wilson insisted on being allowed to see House now, _today_.

Wilson finally makes the turn onto the gravel road, mud sucking at his tires. He realizes that he's never been here during the day, and the line of pines flashing past the high, barbed-wire topped fence are new to him. He stops at the tiny guard post in the outer gate and explains his situation. He's relieved when the guard--a kid who looks barely old enough to be out of high school--writes down his license plate number and waves him on through.

Wilson parks his car in the empty visitor lot and approaches a small door to the right of main entrance marked 'Authorized Personnel Only'. He knocks, as he's been instructed to do. A few seconds later, the door opens.

"Dr. Wilson?" She extends her hand. "Hi. I'm Amy McIntire." She looks about thirty or so, with curly brown hair and large, sad eyes. She's dressed in green scrubs, and Wilson can't help thinking that she looks a lot like his ex-wife.

"Hi, Amy. I'm James. It's nice to actually meet you in person." He shakes her hand briefly. "Look--Thanks for going to all this trouble for me. It means a lot. It's just--" He trails off, feeling awkward.

"It's really no problem. I know how hard it's been for family and friends of the...affected." Now they're both feeling awkward. She smiles up at him. "Come on inside and I'll take you to him."

"Thanks."

They stop at a small desk, manned by an unsmiling guard, and Wilson gets a nametag marked with the word 'Visitor' and today's date.

He follows Amy through a series of locked gates and doors and down tile hallways that smell first like a zoo, a school cafeteria, and finally, the familiar antiseptic scent of a hospital. They pass a few people--some dressed in scrubs and some in full camouflage carrying guns.

Wilson wonders where the government finds all their medical personnel. "Have you worked with wolves before?"

"I was a staff vet as part of the captive breeding program back when they did the reintroduction in Wyoming. And I've worked with them occasionally at the Cincinnati zoo."

They turn through a door on the right and into a large room that's full of an eclectic mix of medical and veterinary equipment. A doctor in a white lab coat is sitting at one of the benches eating a sandwich and writing in a chart. He looks up curiously, waves to Amy, and goes back to his lunch.

"This is our main procedure room-slash-lab area. We have smaller surgical rooms for more involved surgeries or critical cases. Luckily, we haven't had too many of those to deal with." Amy gestures around as she leads Wilson to a door in the back of the room. "I know it doesn't look like much. Budgeting is kind of tight right now and we have to push constantly to get a lot of the supplies we need. But we've got a great staff and--" She flutters her hand at her mouth and smiles ruefully. "Sorry. I tend to run my mouth when I get nervous."

"No, it's--" Wilson's a little shocked at the contrast to PPTH, but the equipment looks new and everything seems clean and well-maintained. He tries to smile reassuringly. "I'm sorry. I'm sure my friend is getting the best care possible. It's just--I'm a little stressed right now."

"I understand."

They're now in a smaller hallway that contains about five green doors with little windows. The animal smell is much stronger here. Amy stops them outside a door with a placard that says, 'House, Gregory, #2694' in red marker.

"Look--I know you're a doctor, but this can be a little upsetting to anyone who's not used to seeing it every day. So I just want to warn you before we go in." She smiles again, gently, and Wilson likes her even more. "Greg's doing well. He's sedated right now. We've got him on diazepam, and IV morphine and enrofloxacin for infection. And corticosterone for the swelling. I was the vet on call yesterday when they brought him in, and I've treated him before anyway, so I took his case. I don't know what happened, exactly. The attendants on duty said he got into a fight with a couple other wolves over food. He'd received some fairly severe bite wounds to his throat and some smaller wounds on his front legs. Luckily there was no major damage to the underlying muscles or veins--the damage looks a lot worse than it is. I cleaned and sutured the wounds. Bites can get pretty nasty, so I've put in a couple of drainage tubes and left the smaller wounds open. So far, there haven't been any complications. Remind me to get you a copy of his file before you leave. Okay? It's probably against the rules, but I don't care. Are you ready to see him?"

She talks so fast that Wilson can barely keep up with the details. Suddenly he's nervous. This will be the first time he's seen House as a wolf since September--it's still hard to get used to.

"I'm ready."

Amy opens the outer door and they step into a small room. There's a fence--chain link over bars, running from floor to ceiling--about a quarter of the way in. House is lying on a sheet-covered mat on the floor, which is covered in straw. Wilson tries to keep calm about everything, about seeing House as an animal in a cage, but it's hard. He hopes it's not obvious how desperately he's trying to keep it together.

Amy's got a set of keys out and is opening the cage door. "Would you like to come in? Sit with him?" Her voice is gentle.

"Um--yeah." Wilson wipes his eyes quickly with his sleeve. He takes a deep breath. "I'd like that. Thank you."

"No problem."

They step inside. Now that Wilson is close enough to get a good look, he can focus on being a doctor. The wounds in House's neck _do_ look ugly--the shaved skin is raw and red where it's been closed with dark sutures--but the tissue looks healthy and free of infection. Wilson can see the ends of two rubber drainage tubes sticking out on either side of the damage. He looks down House's front legs. There are a number of smaller, shaved patches around open wounds. The skin is still slightly discolored from the Betadine used to disinfect them. There's an IV line in his right foreleg, leading to bag hanging outside the cage. He looks like the same wolf--he's got that familiar salt-and-pepper fur around his muzzle and eyes. A little thinner than Wilson remembers and his fur is longer, but otherwise he's the same.

Dr. McIntire is talking and Wilson tries to pay attention to what she's saying.

"We decided not to bandage his neck. He'd probably just rip it off, anyway, and I'm pretty sure he wouldn't be too happy with an E-collar. The sutures held well when he changed last night and again this morning--that was something we were worried about, but it hasn't been a problem. Dr. Wong is Greg's, um--his regular doctor. He'll be in around five this evening for the nightshift. Remind me to get a copy of his notes for you, too." She pauses. "You doing okay?"

"Yeah, sorry. It's just hard for me to--" See him in a cage, as a dog, with his throat practically ripped out. "See him like this," he finishes.

"I think he'll be fine. He's doing well." Amy sits down by House's head. She takes a few seconds to inspect his stitches and then starts stroking him, hand moving down between his ears and along his back. "If you want to touch him, that's fine."

There's something hilarious about the idea of House being petted, but Wilson sits down on the straw anyway.

"Is that safe? I mean--I know he's sedated, but he's basically a wild animal, right?"

"He's usually very gentle with me. Very friendly compared to some of the others."

Wilson snorts out a laugh.

Amy smiles up at him. "I'm guessing he's a little different in person, huh?"

"You could say that." And even though House will kill him if he ever finds out about it, Wilson reaches out and pets him. His fur is both smoother and coarser than Wilson expected it to be. He runs his hand from the back of House's ear--where the fur is especially soft--along the side of his neck, carefully avoiding the damage, and down along House's flank. He's never touched such a large animal before, and he's never touched House like this before either. Wilson's surprised to find that he feels a little better. He keeps petting.

"You mentioned treating House--Greg, I mean--before?"

"That's right. He gets a little painful, especially on cold days, so I've got him on aspirin for that. It's not much, but it seems to help out. And back in January he cut himself somehow on one of the perimeter fences, so I stitched that back up. Plus, I do all his vaccinations and routine exams. Stuff like that" She scratches behind House's ear fondly. "I like him. He's nice to work with, like I said--friendly, very curious, always trying to lick my face." She chuckles. "He is a little bit of flirt, though. Likes to stick his nose in my crotch."

Wilson can't help but laugh. "That sounds more like him."

"I've never actually met him. As a human, I mean. I'm only here during the day. And we've found that human personality doesn't seem to correlate exactly to how someone will act as a wolf. There's some overlap, but it's more complicated than that. So I don't really know him, know what he's like."

Wilson always struggles with the right words to describe House. "He's not-- Most people find him a little difficult to get along with."

"He doesn't get along so well with the other wolves, either, obviously." She gestures vaguely at House's injuries. "Even with his own pack, he's really an outsider."

It's so strange for Wilson to hear about House as a wolf. "He has a pack?"

"He's _in_ a pack," Amy corrects him. "Barely." She picks at a little bit of loose fur above House's eye. "I don't know how much you know about wolves--?"

Wilson shakes his head. "Almost nothing. Just what I've seen on the Discovery Channel."

"Well, a pack has a pretty rigid social structure. These guys are pretty different for obvious reasons, but their behavior is sort of similar to what we see in real wolves. Basically, there's usually an alpha male and female. They're dominant over all the other pack members--get to eat first, mate, have pups, that sort of thing. The Mess pack--that's the name we've given to Greg's pack." She smiles. "Because their territory is over near the Mess Hall. We're very creative. Anyway, the Mess pack only has an alpha male and he has no mate. Yet. But, that'll probably change in a few weeks when the mating season really gets going. I'm sure that won't be fun for--" She stops and smiles sheepishly at him. "I'm sorry--I'm rambling again. You probably don't need to hear all of this."

"No, it's fine. I mean, you're not rambling. And I like hearing about House--Greg's life here." Wilson wasn't sure if he actually did want to hear about it, but he enjoyed listening to Amy talk and he wanted to sit with House a little longer.

"Greg's the lowest-ranking member of the pack--the omega. In a normal wolf pack, the omega is usually a young wolf, but, like I said, things are a little different with these guys. Rank seems to have a lot more to do with personality. We've got a researcher working on it, actually--it's interesting stuff."

"Being the omega is bad, right?"

"It's not necessarily bad." Wilson can tell Amy is trying to decide exactly how much she should say. "He gets picked on a lot and he's the last in line for pretty much everything, but he's also the most...mischevious in the group. He breaks the tension--if there's a real conflict between pack mates, he'll draw the fire, basically."

House takes a deep breath and sighs, breath blowing past his lips. Amy smiles sadly at him and tugs gently at his ear. Wilson notices for the first time that there's a piece missing from the tip, the edge is covered in red scabs.

"I can tell he doesn't like the authority the other wolves have over him. He can't help pushing back. It gets him in trouble sometimes."

Wilson's glad for that, even if it means seeing House torn up and sedated in the hospital. He's glad that at least some part of the man he knows exists in this different form.

"What will happen to him now?"

"He'll go back into the general population when he's well enough. It shouldn't be more than a few days--we don't like keeping them separated from the pack for long because it can cause more problems. We've moved the wolf--I'm sorry--the person who caused the fight to another facility. We'll probably recommend feeding Greg away from the others, though, just so this sort of thing doesn't happen again."

"Thanks for-- bending the rules for me. And for taking care of him."

"It's no problem." Amy's eyes are sad again. Wilson can barely stand to look at them, so he looks back down at House, runs his hand over the soft fur. "You can sit with him as long as you like."

A part of Wilson wants desperately to stay--wait until House is himself, make sure he's okay, that he gets the right meds for his pain. Take care of him. But another part of him knows he can't handle that right now. It's too much and he's not ready to deal with it.

He'll drive back to Princeton this afternoon, before the sun sets.

12.

House wakes up, gasping. Everything feels way too good and he recognizes, instantly, that he's about to come. It takes him a few more seconds to realize that this is not, in fact, a dream. There's actually another person on top of him, also making embarrassing noises. But before he can do anything about it, it's too late.

The situation is not nearly as awkward as it should be, as it would have been only a few months ago. House has had his share of mornings--mostly as an undergrad, but also in med school--when he's woken up next to some stranger after a night of too much alcohol and too little common sense, but those memories are nothing compared to his recent experiences.

Over the past few months he's gotten used to waking up every night naked, cold, and muddy, sometimes covered in scratches, or with some taste in his mouth he can't quite identify. He'd even regained consciousness once and found himself curled up with some random guy--the uptight asshole threw him out into the rain, wouldn't even let him borrow a pair of pants.

This is the first time he's woken up while actually having sex.

He's still disoriented and it takes him a few minutes to catch his breath. The girl--and he can see now that she's just a girl, maybe in her twenties, but certainly no older--rolls off of him and to the side. House lets his hand slide along her smooth skin because she doesn't seem to mind and it's been a long time since he's woken up to anything but cold and pain.

The girl doesn't bother to cover herself up, which House also appreciates. Instead, she just smiles up at him, curiously. Her brown eyes glow orange in the dim light.

"I've seen you in the infirmary. You're a doctor, right?"

"Yep." He never feels like talking much right after sex, even sex he can't really remember.

She runs a hand through her messily shorn hair and sits up, wrapping her arms around thin, grubby knees. There's a tattoo on her left ankle--a butterfly, a tiger swallowtail. _Papilio glaucus_ , House thinks.

"What pack are you in?"

That's right, names aren't important here. The only thing that matters is the group you belong to. Who owns you.

"The Mess pack." House looks around, trying to decide if this is her tent--it certainly isn't his, there's way too much stuff in here--and how far away his clothes might be. He guesses he's a jerk for not asking about her pack, but he doesn't really give a crap.

Butterfly girl doesn't seem to mind. She reaches across and runs her fingers over the line of white scars on his neck and down to the gunshot wound. The new additions have healed well, but the edges are still raised and rough. One day soon, he'll be more scar than man. Or dog.

"You're a fighter," she murmurs.

"I'm a loser."

She giggles through her nose and it's seriously annoying. House decides that's his cue to get moving. He sits up, keeping the blankets over his crotch and thigh. "Do you have a pair of pants I can borrow? I seem to have lost mine somehow."

More giggles. "Yeah. I think the last guy left a pair in here somewhere. Hold on a sec." She gets up and rummages around in the darkness. House imagines a series of men shedding their clothes like old snake skins, and leaving them behind in butterfly girl's tent. It's a disturbing thought.

Thankfully, werewolves don't seem to be prone to viral infections anymore, so at least some types of STDs are no longer a worry. And the idiots running this place actually had an intelligent thought and decided to put all the women on mandatory birth control--another basic human right trampled underfoot, but, for once, House is grateful.

When she returns, she's holding out a pair of dirty sweatpants. House slips them on, not really caring that some other guy's unwashed junk was probably just rubbing against the crotch. He guesses it doesn't matter anymore.

Once he's decent, he stands up. This next part will always be awkward. "Um, thanks. For the pants. And the sex."

"No problem." She waves, airily, and steps into her own clothes. House thinks she'd definitely be cuter if she put on a little weight. She's not bad, though--his other self has pretty good taste. Maybe he'll be back here again.

His own tent is about a five-minute walk, shirtless, through the chilly air. Even though he's getting used to it, House still hates being cold all the time. He's looking forward to getting into his own clothes--a lot of his own clothes--it's definitely a good night for layers.

Unfortunately, there's someone in his tent.

"Well, look who finally managed to drag himself home." Dee is sitting on his cot, reading a magazine.

House glares at her. "Get out." He's just not in the mood right now.

"Ooh, someone's grumpy tonight. You'd think you'd be in a better mood after getting some, but not you. No way." She shakes her head like this is the saddest thing she's ever heard and turns a page.

House rolls his eyes and looks around for something to wear. He finds a t-shirt on the floor that's only slightly filthy and slips it on. Then pulls an old flannel over it. "I have no problem with 'getting some'," he explains. "I just hate losing my pants." Dee is sitting right in the spot where he normally piles his clothes. He gestures impatiently with a pair of socks. "Your totally bootylicious ass is in my way. _Move_."

She harrumphs but scoots over so he can paw through the pile.

Despite all the shit he gives her, Dee's about the closest thing to a friend House has in here. They'd gotten to know each other after waking up together a few times in a row and, as two outsiders in what basically amounts to a popularity contest, they've formed a tentative alliance. She reminds him of Wilson, in a way--she doesn't take his jokes seriously, but she does take him seriously. And she give back as good as she gets.

They'd had sex only once, during one miserable night back in their second week at the camp. It had snowed for hours that night, until drifts had pressed in against the sides of House's tent, threatening to collapse it. He remembers watching his pale hands on her dark skin, and that she'd smelled like wood smoke and sweat.

House knows nothing about her life before; he doesn't even know her real name. He's never asked and she's never offered. She has a family, though. He's seen them during visiting hours--two little boys, and a balding man, who must be her husband. The little boys cried when the hour was up and House had looked away. He doesn't want to know these things.

"Stevens was looking for you."

"Perfect." House is still trying to locate his clothes. He's got a jacket in here somewhere. He's pretty sure, anyway.

"I don't think it was anything bad. He just wanted you for the infirmary or something."

"Yeah, I'll get right on that." House gives up on the jacket for now and decides to just focus on getting his socks on. He sits down on the cot next to Dee.

"So..." Dee starts, even though she's still engrossed in her magazine--something that looks like it came straight out of the nineties.

"So what?" House hauls his bad leg up and tugs on a sock. The end of his big toe pokes through a hole. He wiggles his foot until the entire toe is free. He really doesn't want to play twenty questions tonight.

"So, who is she?" Dee turns a page, casually. "Or he?"

"Nobody." House quickly pulls the other sock on. They don't match, but he doesn't care.

"Fine."

"What?" He wishes Dee would quit, but he knows she won't. It's another of her annoying, Wilson-esque traits.

"Why can't you just accept something...pleasant for what it is? Just enjoy it?"

"Sorry--I prefer to pay for my anonymous sex in advance. That way, I know what I'm getting." He really wants that jacket, but searching for it is probably a lost cause. "Plus, as a bonus, I get to keep my clothes."

At least his boots are still here. He pulls them out from under the cot and stuffs his feet into them. And now he's ready to enjoy a fantastic evening treating an endless assortment of cuts and bites and blisters in the camp's infirmary, which makes PPTH's clinic look like Johns Hopkins.

House heaves himself up with a groan. _Both_ of his legs and his back are aching from this evening's workout.

" _Man_ , you're old." Dee shakes her head sadly.

Sometimes House wishes he still had his cane--it was useful for getting around and whacking annoying people. He settles for glaring at her instead.

Maybe he can avoid Stevens and the infirmary if he hurries. There are things he'd rather be doing tonight. "I'm heading out. Don't wait up."

Dee finally puts down her magazine, an old People--Princess Diana is on the cover. "Your friend coming next week?"

House grabs a scarf and wraps it around his neck a few times. Without his jacket, it's the best he can do to ward off the cold. "Which one?"

Dee chuckles. "Your _only_ friend."

House frowns. He doesn't like talking about the outside world with anyone in here. There's just no point. But Dee is an ally, if not a friend--he'll let it slide.

"Yeah, he's coming. Can't keep him away from this place."

Dee nods. "That's good," she says. "You need someone." She picks up her magazine and hums a little song to herself as she turns the pages.

House rolls his eyes. The psychoanalysis never ends. He must have a sign on his head or something--' _please shrink here_ '. As if Wilson and Cuddy weren't bad enough.

He decides to let Dee interpret his lack of comment however she pleases. He's got the whole night ahead of him.

House steps out of the tent and right into Stevens. He doesn't work in the infirmary--he spends the night washing dishes instead.

13.

Wilson sits at his desk, going through a stack of the most recent articles with a yellow highlighter. It's well past midnight. He pauses for a moment, listening as the night janitor passes by his office with the electric floor buffer. This is the third time this week that he's stayed so late. On Tuesday, he didn't go back to the hotel at all--he'd showered and changed in the locker room instead. He just finds it easier to get work done when he's not interrupted.

The article he's currently reading describes attempts to stop the daily changes by dosing affected individuals with an anti-psychotic drug, risperidone. It didn't work. Wilson yawns for what feels like the millionth time, rubs at his eyes, and picks up the next paper on the stack.

He reads for a few minutes, brow furrowing. The news isn't good. Wilson tries to ignore the panic he feels rising, the twisting in his gut. He wants to go out to some bar, have too much to drink, meet a stranger, and take her back to his anonymous hotel room. He wants to do something completely selfish and self-destructive. He's done it before, many times, when he was happily married and when he was alone.

There's nothing stopping him now, nothing to keep him from flying apart--it would be easy to put everything aside and walk right out of the hospital. Instead, he marks a few key passages in bright yellow. Such a happy color, he thinks. It doesn't seem appropriate here.

At least they've finally found something. Out of the hundreds and hundreds of studies conducted since the crisis began, only a handful had actually managed to measure anything. Wilson knows House will probably want to see this. He'll bring the article with him when he visits on Saturday.

Wilson leans back in his chair and stretches, arms above his head. He imagines a new addition to the sign at the visitor's entrance: 'absolutely no articles'. He chuckles to himself.

There's a stack of mail that he should probably get to before heading back to the hotel. He's been letting things go lately. It's just easier now to ignore the everyday tasks he used to stay on top of.

Wilson grabs the first letter. It's from the Department of Homeland Security, which is... _strange_. He frowns and rips it open. There's a single, folded sheet inside. He reads the whole letter quickly then goes back and reads it again, hands shaking.

Later, he'll drive to a low-end bar in Trenton and drink too much, but he doesn't bring home any strangers.

14.

House makes his way slowly toward the camp's main building, stepping carefully around mud puddles in the path. Spring is coming, and the last of the stubborn snow is melting, turning the camp into a sticky mess. New plants that have started to push themselves out of the soggy earth like worms driven by a flood. The ground is a dirty patchwork quilt of brown, green, and white.

House still finds it remarkable how well he can see in the dark. Even the deepest, darkest shadows contain no mysteries. But now everything not illuminated by harsh, artificial light, is measured out in shades of gray. He's surprised how much he misses daylight.

Wilson is coming tonight, and House has managed to use that to negotiate his way out of forced service in the infirmary. He must have eaten well during the day because he's not hungry, his clothes were easy to find and only a slightly filthy, and Stevens, their new beta, didn't give him any shit when he slunk away from camp. All things considered, it's a good night.

There's already a crowd gathered outside the entrance to the visitor's building, everyone looking pathetically excited at the prospect of some human contact. House leans against the cinderblock wall--his leg is aching tonight--to wait with all the other unfortunates.

He used to hate these visits--the sad parade of family and friends. What good did it do for anyone here? Seeing the people from your former life, talking to them, and then watching them leave while you stayed behind, caused nothing but pain. Like opening an old wound again and again just to watch it bleed.

Cameron and Chase were the worst. They'd come after Wilson's second visit and the two of them had looked at him with so much sympathy in their pretty, limpid eyes that House had been as rude and obnoxious as possible. It hadn't helped anything, though. He'd only succeeded in making Cameron look like she was going to cry while Chase rubbed her shoulder, and they'd both given him sad, understanding looks. House had felt like an asshole afterwards.

Now he looks forward to Wilson's visits. He knows it's pathetic, but there are so few pleasures now. He'll take whatever he can get.

House is considering sitting down in the mud, just to give his leg a break, when the door finally opens and they're allowed to shuffle into the visiting area. He spots Wilson at their usual table and sits down across from him.

Wilson gives him a half-hearted smile. "Hey," he says.

"Hey." House eyes Wilson critically, noting the dark circles under red-rimmed eyes, the ugly green tie that doesn't match his shirt at all. He even _smells_ tired. "You look like shit."

"Thanks," Wilson says, sarcastically. "You, on the other hand, look great. They got you on some kind of new, high-protein kibble or something?"

House snorts. "Nice."

"You were asking for it."

"Seriously. What's up? Future wife number four already sucking the life out of you?"

Wilson scrubs at his face. "I'm fine, House. I was just up late last night reading."

"Is that some new euphemism for 'watching porn'?"

That doesn't even elicit a smile. If anything, Wilson looks even more depressed. He takes some papers out of his pocket and tosses them across the table to House. "Oren and Yoshita just published this in Science. It's big news."

House frowns down at the first page. "'Human-phase length decrease in sufferers of Balter's syndrome'," he reads the title out loud. "Who the fuck is Balter and why do I have his syndrome?"

"That's not important--he's just the guy who gets credit for finally giving a name to something no one can explain. I think the content of the article should be what interests you."

House scans the abstract, turns the pages and glances at the graphs. They all say the same thing. He pushes it back across the table.

"Doesn't mean anything. It's spring. Days are getting longer--"

Wilson's shaking his head. "They've corrected for that. Even taking seasonal changes in day length into account, the result is the same." He gives him that serious, yet oh so sympathetic look that makes House want to punch him. "You're spending less time as a person each day. And it's--" He gestures, helplessly. "It's progressing pretty fast."

House looks around. He hates this room, hates the super happy posters of flowers and mountains and the cheap decorations designed to make everyone forget how miserable their lives are. Right now, everything's decked out for St. Patrick's Day--flimsy paper shamrocks are taped to the walls, neon green streamers hang from the ceiling.

And he especially hates this calendar. March is a scene of rolling meadows filled with wildflowers and adorable, frolicking wolf cubs. What a shitty thing to put on a wall. He wonders whose idea that was, which militant asshole thought it was funny.

House knows he'll never see green--real green, outside in daylight, not these pathetic reminders--again.

He turns back to Wilson, who's watching him expectantly. House shrugs. "So?"

Wilson looks disappointed. "Just 'so'? That's it?"

"Well, what the fuck do you want me to do about it? No one has any fucking clue! You want _me_ to stop this? Work in my secret lab 'til I find a cure? I've got a PCR machine back at my tent--made it out of mud and sticks--I can hook that up and--"

" _House_."

He can see Wilson's hurt--and this isn't what he wanted, didn't want to take his frustrations out on his only friend--but he's tired of being helpless. House already knows he's never getting out of here, that this is essentially a death sentence. He just doesn't want to hear about how he's going to die.

"Sorry," he mumbles. Now he feels guilty, too. _Fuck_. He _was_ having a good night. How did everything go downhill so fast?

Wilson has that understanding look on his face, and that makes House angry again, makes him feel pathetic. But there's something else Wilson's not saying. House can always tell when he's holding back.

Wilson lets out a long breath and raises his eyebrows. Here it comes, House thinks.

"There's more."

"Oh, great. So when's the wedding? Sorry I'm not going to be able to attend, but you know how it is...I might pee on the bride's dress, hump a leg, something like that." House can't keep from fidgeting because he knows what's coming is the real bad news.

Wilson fishes an envelope out of his pocket. "This came two days ago. It's a notice from the Department of Homeland Security." He unfolds the letter and puts it on the table.

House doesn't bother to pick it up. He just stares at Wilson.

"They're moving you to Arizona."


	3. Spring to Summer

15.

The music playing in the bar is bluesy, but modern. House wouldn't approve--it's too smooth, too electric. There's not enough grit. And the crowd here tonight is the same, Wilson thinks--young, pretty, untroubled, and shallow.

He picks up their drinks--a gin and tonic for Cuddy and a beer for himself--and maneuvers his way across the room to their table in the corner.

Earlier, Cuddy caught him in his office just as he was finishing up some paperwork and considering packing up for the evening. She'd asked if he wanted to go out for a drink and Wilson realized he hadn't had a night out in over three months, not counting last week's drunken binge.

Cuddy looks nice tonight--she's wearing some kind of blue, silky thing that actually seems to glow under the harsh lights over the bar. She always looks nice, Wilson thinks, and he wonders for the millionth time or so why they've never been more than friends. The perfect time--that wonderful momentum that tips people into a relationship--just hasn't happened for them. And Wilson has no illusions that tonight is anything more than Cuddy checking up on him, being a good friend.

And maybe that's his fault too. Maybe he's never made enough room in his life for anyone other than House. It's a depressing thought.

Cuddy takes a delicate sip of her gin and tonic. "So, are you still negotiating with the federal government?"

"Yeah. I think it might be another lost cause, though. At least, I haven't figured out a way to stop the move yet." Wilson really doesn't want the beer that's sitting in front of him, but he takes a sip anyway and grimaces. "I've got a couple more people I can write to and then..." He shrugs.

Cuddy smiles sadly. "It's--" She pauses. "Maybe this is a good thing."

Wilson raises an eyebrow.

"You mentioned that he's had a few incidents at this facility--got in some fights, right? Maybe this new place will be a better environment for him."

"Cuddy--" Wilson chuckles.

"I know, I know--House is House wherever he is." She smiles ruefully. "Okay, so maybe I'm just trying to convince myself."

Wilson takes a long sip of beer and sighs. "Whether we convince ourselves or not is probably a moot point. I don't think I can stop the transfer."

"Well, I don't think it's a long flight to Phoenix, and I'd give you the time, if that's what you wanted to do."

"Thanks." Wilson's hoping it won't come to that, though, but he might not have a choice.

They sip their drinks quietly for a few moments, listening to the conversation drifting around them. The silence would be awkward if they didn't already have so much history between them. Wilson has always enjoyed these small moments of companionship.

"So...are you still living over at the Residence Inn?"

"Um, no I--I've moved into House's apartment." He feels pathetic saying it, like he's admitting some weakness of character. And maybe that's what his friendship with House has always been. He's not sure. But if it is, then it's a part of him all the same.

"He gave me the key and I--It just seemed like a waste to pay for the room when I could just live there. And someone needed to keep an eye on his stuff until--until he gets back."

Cuddy gives him her patented concerned look.

"Cuddy, I'm fine. Really."

She smiles again and Wilson wishes things were different between them now, wishes they were meeting here for some other reason. "Sorry. It's just--Worrying is my job, you know."

They finish their drinks--only one round for each of them tonight--and she gives him a ride to House's dark apartment.

16.

His other self is definitely up to something, but House hasn't figured out what it is yet.

 

The clues are interesting. He's been waking up each night exhausted and sore, his legs trembling when he finally manages to stand. It's a sure sign that he's been busy.

 

The mud is also new. He's used to waking up dirty, but now he's practically covered in the stuff every night. Most of it comes off easily, but he still has to spend a few minutes picking at the dirt packed under his fingernails. It's thick, clayey stuff - not at all like the soft topsoil and rotten leaves that make up most of the camp. Also interesting, House thinks.

 

There's something else as well - less tangible, but no less real. He _feels_ different.

 

He can't quite define it exactly. The closer he comes to pinning it down, the more it defies him, frustrates him, until his thoughts are endless loops, useless. He knows there's something he should be doing, though, something important.

 

He finds the ground fascinating all of a sudden, which is...strange. He wakes up now from dreams in which his hands are sinking slowly into dirt, and then faster and faster until he's completely covered. Low, soft places where the earth is damp or little hollows next to trees and buildings attract him the most. He'll think, _that's a good spot_ , and then, _for what exactly?_

House hasn't told the camp shrink about any of this during their required weekly sessions. Actually, he hasn't told the shrink anything about himself at all--he's just used Wilson's life story whenever he could get away with it and role-played the rest, his own version of _What Would Wilson Do?_

 

And he certainly doesn't need a shrink to figure it out. House guesses that he's spending his days digging a hole. Or holes - he's not sure. But where? And why?

 

Unfortunately, tonight, he's trapped in the infirmary--a veritable hell of boring medical cases--so figuring that stuff out will have to wait. Still, he's distracted by the mystery, and by dirt, apparently. There's some stuck under his thumbnail. House picks at it until his finger is sore.

 

The infirmary is not much more than a trailer decked out with rudimentary medical supplies, a couple of gurneys, one working sink, and a toilet. The tiny space is divided up into three 'exam areas'--House uses that term loosely--by white privacy screens. They handle the small stuff--cuts, scrapes, colds, minor infections--while more serious cases are treated at the slightly less prehistoric hospital in the main buildings.

 

Budget issues mean the camp is always understaffed, so some enterprising young guard had convinced the night shift doctors that House would be a great help. And, much to his chagrin, House finds the patients actually like him here--probably because he looks just as terrible as they do. He sometimes wishes the guy had kept his mouth shut.

Tonight he's working with Dr. Wallen, who is hot, but also an idiot, and Dr. Munoz, who is less of an idiot. Their first customers of the night are all children from the holding area next door--apparently there's some kind of sore throat thing making the rounds.

House's current patient is an eight-year-old girl with long, greasy braids and scabs covering just about every part of her body that sticks out of her purple sweater. She coughs exuberantly into House's face. Little flecks of spit land on the folder spread out on his knees.

He grimaces and wipes his face off with his sleeve. "Thanks. That's just perfect."

"You're welcome." She kicks happily at the table leg. Polite kid, House thinks.

He has her chart, but there's really nothing in it at all. Their captors must keep detailed records on each of them. If they do, though, House has never seen any evidence of it. There's just a piece of paper that says his patient's name is Alice and that she has a 'sore throat', only in slightly more pretentious words.

"Your throat hurts," he says.

She nods gravely, braids swinging.

House picks up a penlight. "Say 'Aaaah'."

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaa--" It doesn't look like strep, which is nice, considering he's wearing whatever it is on his face, but there's definitely some redness. She won't need antibiotics, anyway.

"--aaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh--"

"You can stop saying it now." She shuts her mouth with a loud smack.

House takes advantage of the silence to feel the glands in her neck. They're fine, absolutely normal. In fact, except for the redness, she appears to be a perfectly healthy little girl.

House raises one eyebrow at her skeptically. "When did your throat start to hurt?"

"Um, yesterday," she says and smiles shyly at him.

"You mean last night?" House makes a note in her chart.

"No, yesterday. After lunch." Her fingers search around on her elbow until they find a scab. She picks at it enthusiastically.

House lets her enjoy her scab-picking--it's much less interesting than what she's just said. He cocks his head, considering. "You remember what you did yesterday? During the day?"

"Sometimes." She shrugs. "But John says I shouldn't talk about it. _They_ might hear us," she says dramatically.

House sneaks a peak around the privacy screen. Munoz is busy dealing with some old guy's foot blisters and Wallens is flirting with one of the guards. No one's paying them any attention right now.

He lowers his voice. "They can't hear us, so you can tell me, right? Because I'm like you."

She thinks it over for a few seconds before nodding.

"So what were you doing yesterday when your throat started to hurt?"

"They gave us lunch, but Maddie ate all of mine and I got mad. She ate mine last week too and she said she wouldn't do it again, but she did. So I chased her and tried to bite her, but she's really fast. So I barked at her for a long time and then my throat started to hurt so I stopped."

One mystery solved, House thinks. The infirmary is certainly less boring tonight. "You said you remember stuff _sometimes_ ," he says. She nods vigorously. "What about the rest of the time?"

She scrunches her face up in concentration and pulls at the chain around her neck. "It's like when I'm dreaming, mostly. I can't remember everything when I wake up, but I know I had a dream."

"And the other kids--they remember stuff too?"

Alice nods. "We don't talk about it, though. John says not to."

This is important, but House doesn't know what it means. Maybe this is the breakthrough all these idiot researchers have been searching for. And maybe it means nothing at all.

Either way, it probably won't matter to him. He can already feel the time he spends as himself getting shorter and shorter each day. Soon, the hours will dwindle down into nothing. And then he'll be gone. Whys should he help out the assholes using them as lab rats? Why should he make life any more miserable for these kids?

"John's right," he says seriously. "Don't tell anyone."

17.

Wilson's cell phone wakes him from a sound sleep. He tries to shake off the remains of a dream--he's left with the strange feeling that he's been washing clothes, scrubbing uselessly at rust-colored stains--and squints at the digital alarm clock beside the bed. It's three-thirty in the morning. He turns on the light and picks up his phone.

He's thinks at first it must be the hospital--some patient emergency--but the call is from a number he doesn't recognize. That's not unusual: he's had patients use his personal number before--he hands it out occasionally in special cases.

So he's surprised when the person on the phone is not Mrs. Randolph, or Terry West, or Mr. Edson's widow, Gale.

"Wilson, it's me."

" _House!?_ " He practically chokes and then stutters. "How did you--? How are you...on the phone?"

"I broke out."

"Yeah, right," Wilson chuckles, but House is silent. He clears his throat. "Um, _seriously?_ "

"Yep. I need you to come pick me up. And bring me some clothes. And something to eat. And whatever antibiotics you can score. I've got some kind of cut on my back." House sounds nonchalant, but it's forced--Wilson can tell he's stressed.

He thinks it's perfectly understandable, considering the circumstances. "Pick you up? House, I--I'm sure that's some kind of federal offense."

"Fine, don't. I'll go turn myself in. Nice talking to you."

"House, wait. _Damn it_." He just needs a few minutes to think--none of this makes any sense. "How have they not caught you yet?"

"Apparently, they're stupid _and_ underfunded." House pauses. "Look--"

"Hold on." Wilson knows he's about to make a bad decision, but it's House. How can he _not_ do this?

"Wilson--"

"Hold on, hold on." A very bad decision, the worst he's ever made possibly. He's broken the law in House's name before, but this is definitely on a new level. He groans and puts his head in his hand. "Where are you?"

"I'm just outside of Evans Falls, off highway 29. Even if you started driving now, there's no way you'd get here before morning. So I'll meet you tomorrow night. I'll be in the woods behind a cheap-ass motel called the...hold on a sec." There's some rustling Wilson can't make out, then House comes back on the line. "Called The Shady Inn. It's strangely appropriate, I think."

" _House_ ," Wilson warns.

"Ask for room twelve--it's near the back. This place is a dive, so it shouldn't be a problem. _Don't_ use a credit card or anything else with your name on it. And you should rent a car. In fact, you should rent two cars. Three would be better. I'll try to meet you there tomorrow night. If I don't show, wait one more day. If I _still_ don't show, then assume the counselors dragged me back to summer camp. I'll send you a postcard."

Wilson scribbles it all down on a little notepad.

"Got all that?"

"Yeah." He's about to commit a serious crime and it doesn't feel good. _God_ , he's an idiot.

"And, Wilson?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

Wilson sighs again. "Yeah," he says, but what he thinks is, _Damn it, House_.

18.

House is confused when he wakes up in the middle of the forest, naked and cold. Then he remembers what he did yesterday and last night: breaking out _somehow_ \--he has no idea how he managed it--then calling Wilson, and spending the rest of his miserable night curled into a little hollow next to a tree trunk and using a pile of rotting leaves as a blanket. He was absolutely sure that he'd wake up tonight and find himself back at the camp. How hard can it be to track down a crippled wolf?

He groans loudly when he stands up. Everything hurts--his leg, his back, the bottom of his feet are sore and torn, and he's got about four million tiny, irritating scratches and bug bites covering his body. The little bastards ate him alive last night. The large gash on his side--a farewell present from the camp's fence, apparently--is swollen and tender. He probes it gently with his fingers, wincing. The damn thing is definitely infected. Rolling around on the ground all night certainly hasn't helped. Maybe bacterial infections aren't 'purged' at each change, like viral infections seem to be. He'll worry about it later.

He has no idea how far he is from the motel, but he suspects he didn't travel very much yesterday. He and his other, dumber self seem to have formed a bizarre alliance.

House spends an hour or so wandering around in the forest before things start feeling--and smelling--familiar. Eventually, he finds the shitty little convenience store and the pay phone where he called Wilson the night before. The motel is right next door.

So far, he's managed to escape detection. Last night he'd watched the store for an hour or so until he was absolutely sure no one would come by. In his experience, people tended to react badly to naked, scruffy-looking types using their phones. But he's impatient now. The promise of clothes and food-- _and Wilson_ \--is awfully tempting.

House drifts closer to the back of the motel, staying hidden in the darkness under the trees. There are two cars in the small lot. One's a total piece of junk, he's pretty sure it belongs to the manager because it was there last night too, and one looks like a rental. And that car is parked in front of room twelve. It has to be Wilson.

Now or never, he thinks. He slinks along the shadows at the edge of the single security light until he comes to room twelve. He knocks quietly, looking around.

The door cracks open and Wilson's face appears. First he looks suspicious, then shocked--presumably at the sight of House, naked and bloody--then nervous. He tries to stick his head out to look behind House.

"Let me in, asshole. There's no one out here."

Wilson frowns in disapproval. "Just for that, I should leave you out there." But he opens the door and lets House slip inside.

House knows he's not home free, but it's such a relief to be inside. Even if inside is a crappy motel room with orange shag carpet and a disturbing clown painting on the wall. He limps over to the queen bed and sits down on the stained comforter with a sigh.

Wilson doesn't seem to have recovered from his shock yet. He's still standing by the door.

"I know it's hard to stop staring," House says sarcastically. "But, _yes_ , it really is that big."

"God, House..." Wilson shakes his head. "I'm sorry, but you look like shit."

He smiles and it's a look of such relief that House can't help smiling back even though he's tired and sore and miserable.

"Yeah, sorry about that. Busy breaking out of the gulag and all. And there's this--" He twists around to reach his side. That gash is really starting to hurt now that he's not riding an adrenaline high. Actually, everything is starting to hurt now. "You got any antibiotics and maybe some pain meds?"

"Let me take a look at that," Wilson says. Before House can protest, he's already reaching into a bag of medical supplies and snapping on some gloves. Frankly, House is too tired right now to stop the avalanche of care he knew was coming. He just shrugs.

Wilson sits next to him on the bed and asks "Is this okay?" before gently pressing on the wound. House hisses at the pain.

"Sorry," Wilson mutters. He spends a few more painful minutes poking. "I don't think you'll need stitches, but it's definitely infected."

"Ya _think?_ "

Wilson glares before continuing. "And," he says, pointedly, "I'd like to take a look at some of these other cuts before you get dressed."

House sighs. "Fine."

Wilson is quick and professional, but House can't help shivering as the cold gloves roam over his body, lighting gently on his skin like fluttering leaves. He closes his eyes and drifts. He imagines himself running through a forest, cool branches whipping past, the ground disappearing underneath his feet. It's always the first thing that comes to him now when he's tired.

When Wilson is finally satisfied that there are no other life-threatening wounds on House's body--including his feet, which are mostly just filthy--he lets House take a shower.

The hot water feels so good--even stinging against his many cuts--House considers staying under the spray all night. Unfortunately, he doesn't think his trembling legs will hold him up much longer. The right, in particular, is threatening to collapse any minute. He steps out awkwardly and towels himself off, careful not to scrub too hard at his tender skin.

There's bottle of Erythromycin and a single Vicodin sitting on the bathroom counter. He swallows the pill--the familiar taste makes him shiver--shakes out one of the antibiotics and swallows that too.

He catches his reflection for a moment in the foggy mirror--a gray ghost with hollow eyes and cheeks--and looks away quickly.

Wilson is sitting in a rickety-looking armchair watching TV on mute--something about the Grand Canyon, apparently. He looks away while House dresses in the clothes he's brought--some boxers, a pair of familiar jeans, and one of House's old t-shirts.

House raises an eyebrow. "You've been living in my apartment, haven't you?"

"You asked me to!"

"I didn't think you were desperate enough to actually do it."

"Of course!" Wilson throws up his hands in exasperation. "I do you a favor, and you interpret it as me being desperate."

"I'm just saying," House says lightly. "It's just a little bit weird, don't you think?"

"I think this whole thing is weird."

"Right." House nods sleepily--that Vicodin is really making it difficult to care about anything. He'd forgotten how much he enjoyed that particular side-effect. And he's about ready to crawl under this threadbare comforter and pass out, semen stains and creepy clown picture be damned. Dreams of cool forests beckon. But Wilson is still staring at him. He obviously wants something. "What?" House grunts.

"So what's the plan?"

House decides he might as well have this conversation in a more comfortable spot. He pulls himself farther up the bed before collapsing. "What plan?" he mumbles.

"The plan that details exactly how we outwit the federal authorities and don't go to prison."

"Oh, _that_ plan." House waves sleepily. "I'll let you know in the morning."

"You'll be a dog in the morning."

House groans and rubs his eyes. His leg feels better, but that damn gash is still throbbing. And now his bites are itching. Scratching is a bad idea, he thinks, but it feels oh so good.

"And I hear I'm really good with people, which is...almost unbelievable, assuming it's true. I'm probably even housebroken. You shouldn't have a problem. Just make sure you've got a rolled-up newspaper somewhere around here in case I need some discipline."

"Right." Wilson seems doubtful.

There's a particularly annoying mosquito bite on his throat, right under the damn chain. House regrets not asking Wilson to bring bolt-cutters--he'd like to get this thing off his neck. He scratches carefully around the bite. "Did you bring any diazepam with you?"

"Yeah."

"Then I hereby give you permission to drug me and shove me under a blanket in the back seat of your car. The trunk is pushing it, though."

Wilson groans and puts his head in his hands. House smirks. It's good to be home, he thinks.


	4. Spring to Summer

19.

It's eleven o'clock at night and Wilson's just started making dinner.

He's getting used to this strange new schedule. The first few days were difficult, though, as he tried to train himself to sleep during the day so he could stay awake at night. Now, he's used to it. And eating dinner at midnight isn't so odd.

Tonight, he's making a green Thai curry he hasn't tried before. Experience, however, tells him the ingredients will go well together. It's a sense that distinguishes simple 'cooking' from truly creating culinary art, Wilson thinks. The ability to just know how things are going to taste before they actually exist, to weave the different flavors together into a satisfying whole. He tries to remember a time when he didn't liken making good food to creating art, when he just followed recipes by rote, and he can't.

He sets the cilantro aside and pulls on some latex gloves before chopping the tiny, jewel-like chilies that will be the base for the curry. He's had to learn the hard way that capsaicin does not wash off easily. And it doesn't feel good when it gets on certain parts of the anatomy--the burn is something he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy.

When he's got all of the fresh ingredients prepared, he crosses the cabin's small kitchen to refrigerator to get a beer for himself. He leans against the counter, enjoying the cool breeze coming in through the open window and the sound of night insects chirping in the pines.

They've been in Canada for a little over a month now. Crossing the border was surprisingly easy, even with House drugged to the gills and hidden in the trunk.

Wilson is still cautious even though he's pretty sure no one will come looking for them here. He knows Canada has no agreement with the US to extradite escaped werewolves--he's started using House's terminology--although they do have a similar quarantine policy for the affected. Budgets are stretched thin, and no one has the time or resources to waste looking for one escaped detainee.

And even though Wilson's sudden disappearance must look suspicious, he's not wanted for anything--they haven't been able to connect him to House's escape. Cuddy's had at least one visit from the Department of Homeland Defense, but she'd covered for him, saying he was on sabbatical. He's grateful for that.

But he still gets nervous when House stays out all day.

Not that Wilson can really blame him. It's beautiful out here--seemingly endless forests of deep, blue pines and tranquil green lakes. Wilson came to love this area during his time as an undergrad at McGill. He and his buddies had blown off their classes and wasted their time drifting in boats on the lake turning red in the sun or lounging around the rented cabin. Back then, he'd appreciated the alcohol and the freedom. Now, he can appreciate the scenery too.

He takes another sip of beer and checks his watch. House should be back soon. He gets out the dry ingredients for the curry, hoping he didn't forget anything essential. He'd chosen this small cabin precisely because it was secluded, but it makes stepping out for groceries a little more difficult.

The cabin is modern, though, designed for professionals looking to get away from work for the weekend, and Wilson's brought along his laptop, his phone and a printer. During the month they've been here, he's managed to keep up to date on the latest research. What little of it there is, anyway. He'd even driven down to McGill once to get a particular article he couldn't download, and he'd stayed for a few hours to say hello to a couple of his old professors.

A lab in Sweden, at the University of Stockholm, has had some success in delaying the change in Balter's syndrome patients. It's not much, an effect of only a few minutes or so, but Wilson thinks it might be their best hope. Unfortunately, the drug combo they've tested--a mix of perphenazine and olanzapine--is particularly hard on the liver. They'd need to be sure House could handle it. Foreman's already agreed to do the necessary tests. Now the only issue is getting House to agree to them in the first place.

House has seemed happy here--and Wilson's found himself enjoying their time together, in spite of everything--but he's absolutely refused to discuss any possible treatment options. And he's been unusually disinterested in hearing about the latest research. It's a disturbing change. Wilson's not exactly sure what it means yet.

The sound of the back door opening and closing breaks Wilson's thoughts. House, coming home. He'll want to be alone for a while. Wilson takes a package of rice from the cupboard. He pauses when he hears the shower starting up then grabs the peanut oil, too. Might as well get started on that curry.

* * *

Wilson waits until they've finished dinner--the curry was good, but could've used a little more kick, he thinks--and they've moved on to their third beers before he broaches the subject of the Swedish study.

House gives the article a cursory glance, flipping the pages impatiently, before handing it back to him.

"What do you think?" Wilson asks. House is uncharacteristically silent tonight.

"It's a bad study." He sits back on the couch and glares at his beer bottle.

Wilson's used to this response. He knows he'll have to push if he wants a real answer. "Okay," he says. "What's wrong with it?"

House gives him an annoyed look. "It's pointless." He swallows the last of his beer and sets the empty bottle down on the table.

Wilson sighs. "How is it pointless, House?"

"The differences they're getting in the controls and the experimental group are miniscule. They're barely significant. And the sample sizes are pathetic. I'm surprised someone decided to publish this crap. Besides, it doesn't matter what kind of effect they get," he nods at the paper, "because that shit'll kill their patients in a couple weeks' time at those doses."

"House--" Wilson rubs at the back of his head. He knew this was going to be difficult, but...He has to choose his words carefully. "I think--I think this is the best shot we've got right now. If you would just--"

"No." House doesn't even wait for him to finish.

He tries again. "Look. I just want to get some blood. See if--"

"That study doesn't matter."

Wilson wants to reach over and choke some sense into House. Instead, he goes to the kitchen and gets another beer. House is a stubborn ass, but this is insane. "Why? Why just...give up like this?

"Because." House stares resolutely ahead, refusing to make eye contact. Wilson thinks about slapping him to get his attention.

"Since when is that an answer?"

"Since I said it."

Of course, Wilson thinks. "House--"

"Have you ever read Ovid's Metamorphoses?"

Random subject change--typical House.

And this is obviously a trick question. Wilson takes a long sip of beer, trying to control his frustration, before answering. "Um, no."

"That's interesting," House says lightly. He picks up his fork and pushes a grain of rice around on his plate, creating a tiny path in the sauce.

"Okay." Wilson decides he'll play along. "Why is it interesting?"

"Because it was on your bookshelf. I say it's interesting because you don't seem like the type of person who keeps a lot of pretentious books on the shelves just so you can pretend you've read them."

"Well, first, thanks for the compliment, I think. And, second, when was it on my bookshelf?"

House doesn't even have to think about it. "June of 1999. And probably before and after that."

Wilson is confused for a moment before he remembers the time House spent at his place, after Stacy left and House had nearly come apart. He'd sat on the couch, scowling at the TV, a gray and lifeless facsimile of his former self. Wilson's surprised House noticed anything about his surroundings at all, let alone what books might have been in the living room.

"Well, then, mystery solved. It must have been Bonnie's. She majored in Classics."

"Who the hell majors in Classics?"

"My ex-wife, apparently. And what does this have to do with the study?"

"We were discussing metamorphosis. I thought I'd bring up a classical perspective. Wouldn't want that fancy degree to go to waste."

"By all means, then, enlighten me. What did Ovid have to say on the subject?"

House hesitates for just a moment, but it's long enough that Wilson realizes he's serious about this--maybe the change in subject wasn't random at all. Then he starts speaking in a sing-song voice:

" _Inventum medicina meum est, opiferque per orbem dicor, et herbarum subiecta potentia nobis_." He pauses for a moment. " _Ei mihi, quod nullis amor est sanabilis herbis nec prosunt domino, quae prosunt omnibus, artes_."

Wilson's familiar enough with medical terminology to recognize that House is speaking Latin, but beyond that he has no idea. "Um, what?"

"Doesn't matter," House mumbles. "The only thing he really had to say was that everything changes. All the time. That's the only constant thing in the universe." House cocks his head and squints his eyes dramatically. "Which, if you think about it, is kind of a contradiction."

"Okay." Wilson hopes the diversion is over. "Can we change the subject of this conversation? How about we talk about that experimental treatment?"

House is instantly serious again. "We don't know the cause, so any treatments are worthless."

"It could give us more time to--to find a cause. To find _something_."

House is quiet for a while. He clasps his hands, rubbing his thumbs together, and bows his head. "There isn't any more time."

Wilson sits down. He can't believe he's hearing this, even though he's been afraid it was coming. "What are you saying, House?"

House won't look him in the eye. "You know what I'm saying. You've been keeping track of the time too. In a few days or so, I'll change. And I won't change back."

He finally looks up. His eyes are sincere--there's no trace of anything but honesty.

"I don't want to spend the rest of my life as your dog. I don't want to live like that."

House scrubs a hand over his face.

"I want you to--" He bites his lower lip and looks away briefly. Wilson knows he doesn't want to hear this. "Morphine should do the trick, I think. That might be the easiest for me. But if you can't get close enough to do it without getting bitten, a gun might be better. Either way, I won't care. I won't know what's happening. Just--just make it quick."

Wilson's already shaking his head. "No way." He gets up. He can't just sit here and listen to this shit.

"It's what I want," House says quietly but firmly.

"What about what I want?" He can't _fucking_ believe that House could ask this of him after what he's been through. There's no way he could do this. Even if he wanted to.

There's anger in House's eyes now. "What _do_ you want, Wilson? Let's talk about that for a second," he says in a mocking voice. "You must love this shit. This is like a fucking wet dream for you, isn't it?" His voice is rising, until he's practically yelling. "You finally get what you've always wanted--you get someone who needs you for everything. To eat. To drink. To take a piss. _Hell_ , you even get to tell me to get off the furniture! And I get to be your god damn pet--"

"Shut up!" Wilson can't help it. He knows House is pushing him on purpose. It's all a ploy, but he can't help reacting.

House sits back. All his anger is gone, like it was never there in the first place. "How long are you planning on hiding up here?" He's suddenly reasonable again. "How long do you think Cuddy can keep your job for you?"

"House--" Wilson doesn't know what to say. He scrubs at his face in frustration, trying to come to some sort of decision.

"It's not your choice. It's my choice."

And he's right, Wilson realizes. House is always right.

"Okay," he sighs. It feels like defeat--it _is_ a defeat.

"Promise me you'll do this." House's eyes are pleading. Wilson can barely look at him.

He's not sure if he can do this at all.

"Yeah," Wilson whispers.

20.

The wolf runs through the forest, wet leaves brushing his fur and his lungs burning in the moist air.

He's following the days-old trail of a doe that he'll never catch. He's too well fed these days to consider hunting seriously and a deer is probably too large for a single wolf to handle. Squirrels and rabbits are more easily caught. And, anyway, the fun is in the chase.

 

He loses the deer's scent along the moss-covered bank of a small stream. And even though the chase is over, he's not really disappointed--his leg is hurting from the effort and it's almost time to return home for the evening.

 

The wolf wanders into the stream and drinks his fill. When he's in deep enough to cover his forelegs, he lays down, letting the cool water soothe his aching leg.

 

The forest at night is painted in shades of gray. To the wolf's sensitive eyes, the moon is as bright as the sun, though the cool, blue light is much more soothing. But the sounds and smells draw him the most.

The wind carries the far-off scent of a bear, body heavy from a summer's worth of eating, just waking to a long night of foraging. He can just hear the scratching and rustling of a tiny field mouse arranging her nest inside a rotting log. She'd make a nice snack. Fortunately for her, the wolf is in no mood to dig her out. He stretches in the water, his claws stirring up silt around him.

The wolf loves the night.

 

He'd like to stay out here, with the sounds and smells of the forest, but his other life always draws him back.

 

He doesn't understand the strange dreams he half remembers when he wakes up in the early morning - the feelings of frustration and discontent connected to thoughts that are far too complicated for his simpler mind. All he knows is that life is good here in this new place, away from the fear and cages and misery of the camp. He wonders why his other self is still unhappy, why he can't just appreciate the pungent taste of a beetle, or the joy of rolling in a rotting fungus.

 

There is one thing that makes his other self happy: the tall creature, his packmate. And this, at least, the wolf can understand.

 

He climbs carefully onto the bank and shakes himself off. After one last, longing look at the forest, he starts off at a slow trot, favoring his back leg. He'll be lucky to make it back to his territory tonight before he disappears and his other self takes over.

The wolf hopes that tonight he'll be happier.

 

* * *

When House wakes, he's grateful to find himself in his own bed. Unfortunately, he's also covered in mud and so are the sheets. Wilson will be pissed.

 

House takes a shower to wash off the mud, but he doesn't linger. He's strangely restless tonight, much more so than usual after a day spent out in the woods.

The argument with Wilson keeps playing again and again in his head. Too many years of his life have been defined by pain and misery. And he's almost grateful for this thing--this _disease_ , whatever it is--because it took away the pain. And where they are now, living here with Wilson--it's good, great even, but it isn't going to last. Nothing good lasts. And everything changes.

House knows his life will be over soon. His mind, his awareness will be gone--he'll be nothing but an animal. There's no question about that. And there's nothing he can do about it. He can't solve this case.

House dresses quickly in boxers and a t-shirt. He paces slowly around the quiet cabin, making a circuit through the kitchen, down the hall past the room where Wilson is sleeping, to his bedroom, and back again.

It's frustrating--the idea that your life might be over, that there's nothing else--but he's accepted it. House just wishes Wilson could accept it too. He deserves something better than this, something better than taking care of a fucking dog and hoping for a cure that'll never come.

The next few days will be his last, most likely. Based on his calculations, House thinks he's got four or five nights left at the most. Probably totaling only a handful of hours. The last hours of his life, he thinks, and smirks. It sounds so dramatic when he thinks of it like that.

He stops outside of Wilson's room. The door is cracked and the bedside lamp is on, casting a dim orange light on everything. Wilson's asleep, but he's in an awkward position, with one arm dangling and his mouth hanging open. His glasses are still on his face. House can't remember Wilson ever needing glasses before, so they must be new. They make him look like a dork, House thinks, but in a good way. He leans against the door and watches Wilson sleep.

How can you define your whole life in a few hours? You can't--it's impossible. And jumping out of a plane or climbing a fucking mountain or any of that crap that people do when they find out they're dying might seem important, but they mean nothing.

Those things only matter because they're the last things you do.

21.

Wilson tries to wait up for House. He reads an article about some new findings on tumor angiogenesis to keep his mind busy so he doesn't have to think about last night's discussion. But by one AM he's asleep. The journal slips quietly out of his hand to the floor.

He dreams of soft moss and cool, smooth stones beneath his feet, the scent of the forest in his nose. When he's awoken suddenly in the middle of the night, he can still smell moist earth--can almost taste it in the back of his throat--and someone is slipping under the covers beside him.

"House?" He tries to see into the dark, but everything is still a blur. "What's going on?"

"Shhhh..."

House's cold hands running down his chest are enough to convince Wilson he's not dreaming, even if he isn't quite sure yet that he's awake. He jumps when fingers curl around the edge of his boxers.

"House? What--"

"Shut up," House murmurs. And then he's moving down under the blankets, and Wilson can only throw his head back and groan as House's warm mouth closes over him.

And it's good, it's so good, but Wilson's mind can't just shut up and enjoy this. He imagines House changing--muzzle lengthening, filling with sharp teeth. He looks up and sees House staring at him with his strange new eyes and he can't help himself:

"Grandma, what big teeth you have," he whispers.

House chuckles. His warm breath makes Wilson shiver. "I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your... _Wilson_ down. Better reference, I think."

He goes back to work with his mouth and his hands and Wilson moans and reaches down to stroke House's cheek, run his fingers over the roughness there. He's close now, so close--the feel of himself as he moves inside House's mouth is almost too much--but he has to know something first.

"House, stop," he gasps. " _Stop!_ Look at me."

House does. And his eyes are still the same heartbreaking blue they've always been, they're just a little brighter in the dark.

"Why this? Why now?"

" _Because_."

And Wilson's either still dreaming or just very, very desperate because it's enough.

22.

House waits until Wilson falls asleep, then he slips away. He grabs Wilson's phone off the kitchen counter and walks as quietly as he can down the hall and into his room, shutting the door softly behind him.

He knows he'll change soon--he's getting good at recognizing the signs. There's a strange sense of urgency and restlessness, the urge to pace. House feels the way he used to feel when he was on a great case and he didn't yet have an answer. Back when he was a doctor, when he had some sort of life. Now there are never any answers. And there's almost no more time.

House scrolls through the little menu until he finds the number he wants. It rings three, then four times, endlessly. Finally she picks up.

"Yes?"

Cuddy sounds tired and pissed off--exactly how she should sound at two in the morning. House tries to imagine what she's wearing, but in his experience, it's a lost cause--the reality of Cuddy's sleepwear has always been so much better than his fantasies.

"Cuddy, it's me."

"House? What's going on?" She's awake, at least. "Where's Wilson? Has something happened?"

"He's fine. He's just a little tired right now. I didn't eat him, if that's what you're worried about. Not in the way you're thinking, anyway."

"House, what the hell are you talking about?"

As much as he would love to mess with Cuddy, House knows he needs to get this done.

"Look, I--I don't have a lot of time and I need to talk to you. About Wilson." He sighs. "It's important. So just--just listen."

"Okay," she says. House hates the pity he hears in her voice.

How to say this? He's not dying, exactly, but it's the same thing: he'll fall asleep and he won't wake up. Breaking the bad news to a patient's family has never been his thing. Why should he be any better at this?

"Look, Cuddy-- I'm not--" He scrubs at his forehead. "I don't have much more time. Here. It's gonna be soon--a few days, maybe. And Wilson--" _Wilson, you idiot!_ "Wilson wants to save me, find a cure. _Something_. He's not going to let me go after I'm gone. He's going to ruin whatever pathetic excuse for a life he has left for nothing."

He's pissed off now--pissed at Wilson and at himself. "And I don't want that to happen."

Cuddy is silent for a moment. "What do you need me to do?"

House closes his eyes in relief. He can always count on Cuddy's sense of responsibility.

"I need you to talk to him--try to make him see reason. He'll listen to you. God knows why..." If he's being honest with himself, then he has to admit he's always been a little jealous of their relationship, that closeness. Even when it was all about him, he's always been an outsider--the plan, but not a part of the planning. It's okay now, though, because Wilson's going to need someone. And Cuddy's a pretty good choice--she'll watch out for him. "We've discussed this. I've already talked to him about what I want--a shitload of morphine should do it. It'll be quick. But if he doesn't, if he _can't_...I need--I'll need you to do it."

"House, I don't think I can--" House can hear the hitch in her voice--that stuffy sound she makes when she gets weepy.

"Just shut up, okay? This is important. This is what I want. Cuddy--" He's never begged for anything in his life and he's sure as hell not going to start now.

"All right."

"You'll do it?"

"Yes."

"Thank you," he murmurs. He can feel the change rushing up on him--it's almost unbearable now, almost time to let go. He wants to snap the phone closed and pace, but he has to say one more thing. The last thing, probably.

"Cuddy--" He clears his throat. "You're a crappy doctor, and you're bitchy and screechy, and generally a pain in the ass...But you've been--you've been a good boss. And a good friend." House shuts his eyes tightly until he sees flashes of color, bright golds and greens. "I just wanted to say--to say that. Before I go."

She's really crying now, but he can hear a slight smile, too. "I'll miss you, House."

"Bye, Cuddy. Take care of the twins for me. And Wilson. Give him his crappy job back when he's done playing hermit in the woods."

"House, I--"

Whatever Cuddy's trying to say, House doesn't hear it. The phone slips out of his hand to the floor. And he's gone.

23.

It's early on a Thursday, the first chilly morning at the end of summer, when Wilson sees House-- _his_ House--for the last time.

They've both known this was coming, so the night before--a night when House spent only three minutes as himself--they'd chained him to a railing on the back porch. The wolf had spent hours biting and pulling at the chain, unable to comprehend the force that was holding him, until he finally fell into an exhausted sleep around midnight. And Wilson waited, checking his watch, while the wolf twitched and whined in his dreams.

Then, just after two in the morning, it happens--the wolf goes suddenly still. Everything--even his breathing--stops. A strange shimmering spreads across his body, seeming to linger on each hair for a moment before fading away. Wilson freezes, holding his breath. It happens so fast that he thinks maybe his tired eyes imagined the light.

This is not something that can be diagnosed, or cured, he realizes. This is not something that medicine can fix. It never was.

The moment passes and leaves House in its wake, naked and pale. He blinks in confusion. Wilson leans in and covers him up with a blanket. The morning air is cool and goose bumps rise on his skin.

He has so much he wants to say--needs to say--but there's not enough time for any of it.

Instead, he reaches out and lays his hand on House's head.

House frowns at him--Wilson's sure he's about to tell him to fuck off, would almost welcome it--but then House just closes his eyes and relaxes. "Hey," he says, and his voice sounds like he hasn't used it in years.

"Hey," Wilson manages to whisper back. It's become their usual post-change greeting. "I'm sorry I didn't get your clothes. I thought--"

"Doesn't matter."

"Yeah," Wilson agrees. There's so little time left. He needs to say something, _anything_. "House, I--"

"Shut up." House's eyes are sincere. "You don't have to give me any of that hallmark greeting card crap your patients love. I already know how you feel. You don't have to say anything. Just--just _this_...it's enough."

House takes a few deep breaths and swallows.

"And it's good, but it's over now." He pauses and shuts his eyes tightly. When he opens them again, they're absolutely clear. "You need to go back to Princeton and get a fucking life. Go sleep with Cuddy and knock her up. Go be a dad. Go do... _something_." He's panting now and Wilson knows their time is almost up.

"House--"

"Shut up and go live your damn life." He closes his eyes again, but this time they don't open.

Wilson keeps his hand on House's head, afraid to move, afraid to even breathe and miss this last moment.

The shimmering begins again, and Wilson blinks back tears that blur his vision. He can feel the textures shifting under his hand--House's wiry hair becoming smoother fur. Wilson tries to identify the exact instant the change occurs, the last part of House to disappear, but he can't. And it's over.

* * *

The next night, Wilson stays awake for hours, watching and waiting, so afraid to blink and miss him that his eyes are dry and red. But the change never comes.

The night after that, he watches again--just to be sure. And the next morning he gets out the morphine and a syringe.

He sets both aside on the little table on the porch and goes back into the kitchen to get the wolf his breakfast--raw steak this morning. Ribeye, his favorite.

The wolf has gotten used to the chain. Though he obviously still hates it, he's given up fighting. Instead, he wags his tail, jumping and bowing excitedly at Wilson's approach.

Wilson sees nothing of House in this creature, just the vacant, innocent joy of an animal waiting to be fed. He sets the bowl down and watches the wolf eat.

It's a beautiful morning--crisp and clear--the first fresh hint of fall at the end of a humid summer. Wilson sits in one of the deck chairs and watches his breath drift slowly in the air. He can still smell the wood smoke from last night's fire. Faint swirls of smoke hang in the morning sun, caught between the trees like cobwebs. A calling bird catches the wolf's attention and he twitches one ear towards the sound.

He knows what he promised, but he doesn't think he can do it. He's not sure it's the right thing to do.

This--this _creature_ \--isn't House. But he's something. And he's alive and happy. What right does Wilson have to take that away?

He knows the reasoning behind House's choice--knows he didn't want to be trapped, living half a life, subject to the whims of an animal.

And Wilson made a promise, but now he knows he has to break it.

He strokes the wolf's shaggy, gray head, letting his hand run gently over the smooth fur. The worst of the summer shedding is over, but bits of old, dry hair remain. Wilson tugs at the loose hairs and they come off easily. He brushes them to the ground.

The wolf leans into Wilson's hand when he scratches behind one ear, but his eyes are fixed on the forest. He whines high in his throat--a thin, lonely sound--and Wilson knows what he's asking.

He unhooks the chain from the wolf's neck.

Instantly he's off and running towards the open forest, a gray streak against the bright morning green. The limp barely slows him down.

Wilson thinks maybe the wolf stops and looks back, just before disappearing into the trees. Or maybe he just hopes he does.

"Go live your damn life," he whispers.

* * *

"The art of medicine  
is my invention, and the power of herbs;  
but though the world declare my useful works  
there is no herb to medicate my wound,  
and all the arts that save have failed their lord."

\--Ovid's Metamorphoses, lines 521-524, translated by Brookes More. I could force my own translation on you, but I'm sure no one would appreciate that.)

Apollo, the god of logic and medicine, talking about love after he's been struck by one of Cupid's arrows and has fallen hard for the nymph, Daphne. Poor Daphne is eventually transformed into a laurel tree when the Gods take pity on her and decide to save her from Apollo's lust.


End file.
